


and the ocean calls your name

by magicalyoyo



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 1-800-R-U-SLAPPIN, Embedded Images, Kelpies, LLF Comment Project, M/M, Selkies, Slavic mythology, bonding through near-death experiences, mythology smoothie, now with fifty percent more drowning, scottish mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-04-01 10:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13995894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalyoyo/pseuds/magicalyoyo
Summary: Birds whirled through the air above the cliffs as the darkening sky gave itself up to the sea. It was not the sort of day upon which prophecies were told or lost kings returned to claim their throne, but forgotten secrets would stir in the earth that night, dreaming of their past and awaiting the stories to come. Yuri’s eyes skimmed the crashing waves. He paused as a dark head appeared in the water, sleek and sure amid the currents.A seal, he thought, watching it swim to the shore.But it was not a seal that emerged from the inky ocean. Though the distance was too great for their eyes to meet, Yuri smiled toothily into the weight of the stranger’s gaze.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [KinoGlowWorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KinoGlowWorm/pseuds/KinoGlowWorm/works) and [imaginarydragonling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_dragonling/works) for their beta work. 
> 
> This story is for Della, in all its drafts and incarnations. Meal do naidheachd! <3
> 
> [[spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/rrcopley12/playlist/0MaUoVVaZLEnMASeuJ0oD8?si=oYxoTkd0R4CfnhaZ71PjEw)] [[youtube playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLM2jZZqmXMPzAGsXroDwyBdIUSA_3Qi3w)] [[my tumblr](leopardprinttrashchild.tumblr.com)] [[image sources](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1J679ctfxm4iMTP-F6K7DzHRNjMFm5vcAa2ro9FaX03k/edit?usp=sharing)]

There was no storm on the evening Otabek picked his way along the rocky shore, but neither was the sky clear. He picked a slow, unsteady path until his body’s memories returned to lend surety, the soles of his bare feet finding purchase on the jagged stones.

A tiny cave was notched into the sea-weathered cliffs, soon to be swallowed by the rising tide. Otabek crouched and ducked in, ignoring the icy water that tugged at his ankles as he shed the dark cloak wrapped around his bare shoulders. He gently tucked the soft folds into a crevice that had been carved into the rock by gods older than his own.

With that finished, Otabek turned and stepped back into the ocean.

**:: :: ::**

Birds whirled through the air above the cliffs as the darkening sky gave itself up to the sea. It was not the sort of day upon which prophecies were told or lost kings returned to claim their throne, but forgotten secrets would stir in the earth that night, dreaming of their past and awaiting the stories to come. Yuri’s eyes skimmed the crashing waves. He paused as a dark head appeared in the water, sleek and sure amid the currents.

A seal, he thought, watching it swim to the shore.

But it was not a seal that emerged from the inky ocean. Though the distance was too great for their eyes to meet, Yuri smiled toothily into the weight of the stranger’s gaze.


	2. A Chiad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words that aren't in English will usually be Scots Gaelic or Russian. You can find a pronunciation guide, in order of appearance, [here](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1MAET97EtT4CWQgb3F7KnRuM5dU8P0utuG1ceO0EIU_g/edit?usp=sharing). 
> 
> [[spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/rrcopley12/playlist/0MaUoVVaZLEnMASeuJ0oD8?si=oYxoTkd0R4CfnhaZ71PjEw)] [[youtube playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLM2jZZqmXMPzAGsXroDwyBdIUSA_3Qi3w)] [[my tumblr](leopardprinttrashchild.tumblr.com)] [[image sources](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1J679ctfxm4iMTP-F6K7DzHRNjMFm5vcAa2ro9FaX03k/edit?usp=sharing)]

            The sea-bitten metal scavenged from beneath the waves cut into Otabek’s clenched fist as he searched the cliffs. They were empty, aside from the gulls dipping and screeching above him, yet his heart continued to race. He had been seen, but more than that – he had been understood.

            It was fine, Otabek told himself, nearly choking on his relief as his fingers found the soft, silky fur where it had been left in the grotto, untouched and undisturbed. They had seen him, but not the whole of him. The mysterious observer could know nothing, and anyone who returned later to search would find that the tide had washed away all evidence of his presence.

            He pulled the sealskin more tightly around his shoulders. The cold had driven an ache into the core of his bones, but it was the reassurance of freedom and not warmth that Otabek sought. He left quickly, glancing up and around, but only the setting sun was there to watch him. By the time he reached the point at which the ragged cliffs gave way to a scalable slope, his unease had faded.

            The grass was as soft as velvet. Otabek knelt and murmured a greeting, placing one of the coins at the base of the small hill. It had been a long time since he’d last set foot on this land, and the _daoine sìth_ would mark his return. If their attention must be turned his way, Otabek would prefer that it be on amicable terms.

            When he climbed to his feet, he wasn’t alone.

            “Hello,” Otabek said, speaking softly so as to avoid either spooking the horse or offending it. Most of those who lived on the island were not rich enough for a stable, and the graceful arch of its head bore no sign of a bridle. The creature’s dappled coat shone silver in the weak moonlight as it shifted on lacquered hooves. “I am not of this land, nor do I claim it,” he added cautiously, wondering whether to back up or stand his ground. “I did not intend any intrusions.”

            He wasn’t quite sure what a horse was supposed to smell like, but he didn’t think that it should be of salt and copper and storms. The creature stepped closer soundlessly until Otabek could see the fine hairs of its muzzle and feel its breath, hot and damp, brush across his cheek as it stretched forward and sniffed at his hair.

            He tightened his grip on the sealskin, still damp with saltwater. The horse threw back its head, a crescent of white glinting at the edge of dark eyes. Otabek stumbled, nearly falling to the ground as a huge hoof was lifted up, up, up to the level of Otabek’s face and slammed to the ground with a thud that shook the turf.

            This was… less than ideal, Otabek decided, steadying himself. He still couldn’t be sure if this was a true horse or one of the _daoine sìth_ making merry, and he wasn’t certain which of the two would be preferable. Whichever it was, it was nosing the hand Otabek had lifted to catch his balance, lipping his fingers and the remaining silver coin with startling delicacy. He tried to step back again, but a bony knee caught him in the back – the horse was all around him, its bulk overwhelming in such close quarters - and he tripped again.

            “ _No,_ ” Otabek told it, frustration finally outweighing caution.

            The horse stopped. Then, it snorted, a great billow of air that reverberated in the massive chest, and took a mouthful of his hair, dragging him forward in a sudden lurch. He shoved its muzzle with his free hand, careful not to drop the coin, and regained control of his head as the horse nosed at his hand once more.

            Otabek reached out slowly, coin resting in the center of his open palm, and tried not to flinch at the thought of powerful jaws so close to his fingers. A dark eye, pupil-less in the night’s meager light, was fixed upon his face; for the second time that day, Otabek felt his secrets stripped bare in the chilly wind.

            The horse didn’t move as, sealskin tucked under one arm, Otabek began to loop strands of the coarse, dark mane around the coin, but its ears flicked in what he thought might be amusement. The knot formed a messy cross, held in place by the rough pits and divots carved into the metal by years on the ocean floor. Otabek let the coin rest, nestled in the tangled mane, when he was satisfied that it would hold for at least a few hours’ time. If this turned out to be an odd but ultimately mundane horse, it would soon fall without causing harm – and if not, a coin scavenged from an ancient shipwreck seemed a fair price to pay to avoid being trampled for his lack of courtesy.

            This time, when he backed away, the horse didn’t follow; it merely watched him with a steady, piercing gaze. It was out of sight by the time Otabek reached a small, stone cottage with whitewashed walls and a thatched roof.

            He knocked on the door.

            “Otabek?” Leo laughed breathlessly, silhouetted by the light of the crackling fire. Its warmth washed over Otabek, and he shivered as tension rose from his body like steam; part of him had expected to find the house empty, or inhabited by strangers with hard, suspicious glares. “Get in here, you’re going to freeze.”

“Hi,” Otabek said, accepting the woolen blanket that Leo shoved into his arms. “I gave your present to a horse. I’m sorry.” He paused. “Maybe a horse. Maybe not.”

            “You- never mind.” Leo shook his head. “You were gone for a while, this time. You didn’t find…”

            “I wasn’t looking for her.” It was only half a lie. He hadn’t searched for his mother in years, nor could she have borne to be so close to the ocean any more than he was able to stand being away from it, but his faithless eyes still hoped for the spark of kinship in every passing stranger. “I just… went.”

            Leo rummaged through a set of drawers, selecting various items after a moment’s thought and handed over the loose bundle of clothes. Otabek draped the dark folds of his sealskin over a chair to dry. He would dress once the fire had chased the chill from his limbs and he’d shaken the worst of the salt from his hair, but for now, he pulled the blanket around himself and settled next to the fire.

            Eventually, Leo sank down next to him, watching Otabek inspect the room around him. Instruments were scattered across shelves, carefully perched amongst an eclectic array of keepsakes. He picked out a slim book bound in gilded Levant and a shimmering, opalescent abalone that lay next to a bodhrán with a drumhead worn smooth with use. Despite this, the room felt bare, Leo’s possessions no more than afterthoughts.

            “I liked what you sent,” Leo said, mistaking Otabek’s sideways glance. “They’d often come in groups, every year or so, before the ferry began to carry mail. I tried to guess where you’d been.”

            “Everywhere, it seems.” Otabek stared into the fire, whose dancing flames were the same as they’d always been. “You live alone.”

            His answer came as a soft sigh. “Yes. My sisters left.”

            “The mainland?”

            “ _An Spàinn._ Luisa married a sailor. The others went with her.”

            “Your parents.” Embers glowed, hypnotic, clinging to existence even as they crumbled to ash. Otabek picked at a strand of fraying yarn on the blanket’s edge.

            “Gone. For years, now,” Leo said at last, his words soft and final.

            Otabek closed his eyes, weathering the blow. They had not been his family, but they were- he remembered the sweet, oaky scent of Ròidh’s pipe, and how María’s sharp tongue never managed to hide her kind heart. When he opened them, he saw the silver that streaked Leo’s brown hair and the filigree of lines around his eyes that counted the passing time. His own hands lay in his lap, smooth yet with youth.

            “I didn’t think you would come back this time,” admitted Leo. “When we were children, I couldn’t imagine leaving, but now… why here, when you could go anywhere? Why this island?”

            “Nowhere else is home.”

            “Is this?”

            Otabek thought about it for a moment, listening to the silence.

            “Almost,” he decided, eventually.

 

 ****

 

 _Flip._  
            Shield.  
             _Flip._  
            King.  
             _Flip._  
            King.

            Yuri spun the coin, making it dance across his fingers. It was stained black by saltwater and age, a lump of ragged edges and barely legible markings – much too old to be spent, which meant that it was probably valuable. Humans only seemed to treasure the past when it was far enough away to be comfortable.

            The stranger from last night must have thought it was worth something, if he’d left its twin for the King Under the Hill – Yuri sneered to himself at the title, as ridiculous as the royal himself – but he hadn’t held it as if he’d been thinking of the jewels and pretty furs it could buy.

            Yuri spared no more than a glance for the handful of townsfolk that milled around the square. Most of those who had dragged themselves from bed to face the foggy damp of dawn were down at the docks or tending to livestock in the hills and fields behind the town; the few who remained still wore sleep-dazed expressions and drooping eyes. They gave him a wide berth, unconsciously circling around the low stone wall he perched upon. Yuri was left to eat his pastry in peace until a dark, vaguely feline form crept from the shadows to skitter around his feet.

            “The fuck are you doing out here?” grumbled Yuri. It chittered harshly, staring at him with beady black eyes. “Go home.”

            The _domovoi_ gurgled him discontent. Yuri rolled his eyes. Stupid thing, trotting after him – Viktor and Yuuri must have been talking about him again, forgetting that the house spirit would take matters into his own hairy paws.

            “I’m not part of your family,” Yuri told him. “Get out of here.”

            It heaved a groaning sigh. Yuri echoed it, brushing dust and sticky crumbs from his loose trousers as he stood, and resigned himself to escort duty. If the _domovoi_ was to get lost or waylaid… Yuri wasn’t sure how the _daoine sìth_ would respond. It would probably depend on whether they were bored or not, and if the individuals were cruel or merely capricious. Either way, it was a situation best avoided. Viktor should never have allowed the _domovoi_ to follow them to the island, stowaway or not.

            They took the long route back, skirting the edges of town to avoid any children gifted with vision clearer than they ought to have had, and therefore only half an excuse for delay. The protracted path carried them away from the docks and across the myriad winding trails that led into town, from narrow goat paths up to the single proper road and the sole figure making his way down it on foot.

            Yuri stopped short. It took him a moment to be sure that the man was the same stranger who had emerged from the waves, partly due to the fact that he was now wearing clothes and no longer carried the heavy scent of saltwater. Gone, too, was the peculiar leather shawl - but there was no mistaking his dark eyes.

            “Dè an t-ainm a th'oirbh?” Yuri demanded. The visitor spoke to the island, but whether or not he could understand it was quite another question.

            “Is mise Otabek.” The man’s accent held a strange, archaic lilt. Yuri stepped forward, letting a ripple of danger flow through his body, but Otabek tilted his head and gave no ground. “You were on the cliffs.”

            He hadn’t spoken in the old island’s tongue, but Yuri’s own. Yuri blinked in surprise before catching himself.

            “And you were on my shore.”

            “Your shore,” said Otabek. He echoed his words from the previous night. “I don’t claim this land.”

            “So you've said.” Yuri pulled the coin from his pocket and flicked it into the air. “And the water?”

            Otabek’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, following the arcing path traced through the air, and Yuri watched with interest as unshielded thoughts flashed across his face. It wasn’t the King’s gift, left nestled in the soft grass of the hill – none would steal from the _daoine sìth_ and walk away freely, and nor could anyone mistake Yuri for one of the tame fae, happy to play court and hide away under the earth.

            “The horse,” Otabek said at last. Yuri smiled. “You were the horse. I do not claim this land, thrice I’ve sworn to you.”

            “Thrice you have sworn off the land, but not the water.” Yuri stepped closer to Otabek, drawn in by a riptide of curiosity, and his voice fell to a murmur. “I watched you walk out of my ocean. What are you?”

            “I might ask you the same.”

            “You haven’t guessed already?”

            Hanging between them: the waves, the cliffs, the horse, the coin.

            “Water horse,” breathed Otabek, falling back. His expression slammed closed like storm shutters. “ _Each-uisge._ ”

            “Afraid I’ll drown you?” Yuri flipped the coin once more. He caught it and brushed past Otabek’s frozen form. “Or do you have gills, Otabek?”

            He didn’t turn back. Otabek would yet be motionless, and Yuri was no closer to sating the curiosity that sang in his blood. But, from behind him-

            “What should I call you?”

            “Yuri,” he replied, allowing himself one backwards glance. “For now.”

 

****

 

            Otabek’s legs did their best to carry him to the docks that made up one side of the town. His mind, however, was left behind to stare at the back of Yuri’s head as he strolled away.

            _Each-uisge,_ a shadow darkened with blood and haunted by the souls it had dragged to the depths of the ocean – a being that, thus far, Otabek had been more than content to leave confined in the nostalgic prison of his mother’s half-forgotten stories. Her tales had captivated him when he was young enough to think of danger as nothing more than another form of excitement: water horses, shapeshifters _,_ caught on the border between land and sea. They were as mercurial as the _daoine sìth,_ but their brutality wasn’t curbed by the gilded trappings of diplomacy.

            “Watch it!”

            The yell startled Otabek from his haze. He jumped back, letting a pair of fishermen haul supplies to a tiny boat. Otabek forced himself to jerk his eyes from the thin, flimsy wooden shell that bobbed on the water and watch the men as they began to check their nets.

            “Here to work or gawk, boy?” asked the older of the two as his hands, weathered and coarse from the harsh ocean wind, danced across the knotted rope to test for weakness and fraying cords. Otabek had met him before, when the joints of his fingers hadn’t been swollen with age.

            “To work, sir.”

            “You’d do better looking to the mainland,” he grunted. His words were rich with the island’s lilt, made up of rolling waves and the north’s sharp burr.

            Otabek lifted one shoulder in a shrug, acknowledging the statement’s truth. _As would you,_ murmured the ghost of his smile.

            The fisherman’s face relaxed – Otabek may have been a stranger to him, but the island had claimed them as kin. “You can handle yourself on the water?”

            “Well enough,” affirmed Otabek. His brief passage through town, with its rough cobblestones and leaking gutters, had assured him that he would find no employment on the shore; however, the thought of being helpless and human, kept from the sea by nothing more than brittle wood and luck, repelled him. And then, there was the _each-uisge…_

            _Afraid I’ll drown you?_

            “Ask down at the east end,” came the eventual reply. “One o’them needs a hand. Pale fellow, got a young face and old hair. Bit of an accent. Tell him Eòin sent you over.”

            Otabek gave his thanks and picked his way down the docks. Dawn blossomed, cold and grey, painting quicksilver glints upon the waves. The harbor frolicked in the everlasting wind, gentle as a lamb, and Otabek could see several people naïve enough to believe that it wouldn’t bite. One way or another, those folk wouldn’t stay on the island for long.

            The docks, though they made up most of the town, were small. It took only minutes to reach the end, by which point he’d found several young faces and several silver heads, but none that combined the two.

            “Oh, that one’s been out for past an hour already,” a woman informed Otabek with a wry shake of her head. “Who knows when he’ll be back? Suppose you could try tomorrow, ‘fore the sun’s up, if you’re that keen on a job.”

            Otabek continued past the end of the docks and onto the beach, where he found a rocky outcropping and sat down to wait. He breathed in time with the waves, the pulse of his heart echoing their rhythmic rush against the pebbled sand, and watched the water. It may be hours yet before the man Eòin had sent him to would return, but Otabek’s eyes searched the water for the shimmer of a mane or the curve of an arched, predatory head.

 

 

 

            “I want to know who he is,” Yuri snarled. He threw his knife down, sending it skittering across the wooden table. A potato wobbled and rolled towards the edge, where it teetered precariously before plunging to the floor.

            Catching it deftly, Yuuri cast him a glance and a sigh. “Gesturing _or_ knives, not both,” he said mildly. “He did give you his name.”

            “He told me _a_ name,” Yuri corrected. “Might not be his, and he didn’t _give_ me shit.” He took his flash of frustration out on the recaptured potato. Yuuri and Viktor had the gall to worry about _him,_ while Yuuri hadn’t learned not to hand off names like cheap trinkets. “You were talking about me again.”

            “We- oh. That one.” Yuuri blinked, his eyes sweeping the floor, trying to catch sight of the _domovoi_ that undoubtedly lurked nearby. “He found you again?”

            The potato was thoroughly chopped, or perhaps shredded with more intent than skill, but Yuri brought the knife down on starchy pulp anyway. “He left the fucking house, yes. It’ll be your fault if a _cat sìth_ decides to eat him. And stop talking about me.”

            Yuuri pushed his own pile of neatly diced leek and potato to the center of the table and resettled his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Yuri worried at the corner of his lip. The argument was old and worn, rounded into familiar, comfortable corners, but it tore at him anew each time. The _domovoi_ , far from his home, didn’t belong on the island. Neither did Yuri.

            “I’m sure you’ll run into Otabek again soon. You can talk to him then,” Yuuri said, instead. “Were you… nice?”

            “Nice the way you’re nice?” Yuri shrugged, tracing the uneven curve of the coin in his pocket, and laughed without humor. “Would you have me pretend that I’m harmless?”

_Would you have him believe it?_

            “I mean- never mind.” Yuuri let out a breath of unspoken frustration as Yuri rose from his seat. “Will you be back for dinner?”

            “What is it?” Yuri wrinkled his nose. “Fish?”

            “Lamb stew.”

            “Maybe.” The surface of the coin was pitted with scars from the ocean’s teeth. “And yes, I was nice.”


	3. An Dàrna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words that aren't in English will usually be Scots Gaelic or Russian. You can find a pronunciation guide, in order of appearance, [here](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1MAET97EtT4CWQgb3F7KnRuM5dU8P0utuG1ceO0EIU_g/edit?usp=sharing). 
> 
> [[spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/rrcopley12/playlist/0MaUoVVaZLEnMASeuJ0oD8?si=oYxoTkd0R4CfnhaZ71PjEw)] [[youtube playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLM2jZZqmXMPzAGsXroDwyBdIUSA_3Qi3w)] [[my tumblr](leopardprinttrashchild.tumblr.com)] [[image sources](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1J679ctfxm4iMTP-F6K7DzHRNjMFm5vcAa2ro9FaX03k/edit?usp=sharing)]

            The tide had risen and fallen again when Otabek’s eyes caught on the small boat drifting up to the docks. It was old, with wood worn down by wind and time, but well-maintained; fading sunlight illuminated the telltale gleam of fresh pitch on the hull where it peeked over the sleepy harbor waves.

            The man who climbed onto the dock was tall and slender. His fingers danced deftly, if slowly, over the rope as he tied the boat up to the dock. The knot was sure, but he would never have been taken for a fisherman, or any sort of sailor.

            “Hello,” Otabek called quietly. He felt off-balance, as if the man had reached out and shoved him to the sand. Another stranger, another change. “Eòin said you might have work.”

            “Did he, now?” The man straightened, pushing a lock of silver hair – _old hair and a young face –_ from his forehead. His pale eyes perused Otabek’s face. It wasn’t the piercing, cutting stare of the _each-uisge,_ but a dispassionate catalogue of his entire being. “Well, then. Call me Viktor.”

            A basket was deposited in Otabek’s arms, accompanied by the mingling fragrance of crushed leaves and soft flowers. It felt like childhood summers, with dirt under stubby fingernails and haphazard bundles tied by unpracticed hands. _Righeal cuil,_ a faded memory prompted, and he glimpsed rounded petals peeking through the loose wicker weave. Another bushel of something springy and tangy followed – _samh_ – and on top of that, a tiny oiled pouch. Otabek recoiled from its bitter, musty scent.

            “ _Lus-nam-ban-sìth,_ ” he breathed, falling back from Viktor and the boat. “This is poison.”

            Viktor seemed to be more surprised by Otabek’s recognition than his hissed accusation. “Foxglove? Yes, it is, but it can sustain a feeble heart in the right dose. If you could avoid dropping it, please- thank you.” He caught the flicker of doubt in Otabek’s expression and frowned. “Really, I do try to avoid killing my patients.”

            “… Patients.” Otabek paused, the years since he’d last been to the island falling in a ragged heap at his feet. An old woman had served most of the town’s ill and injured, aided by her children and their children; when he was a child, her hair had shone auburn instead of white. She must have passed long ago, and her family scattered across the mainland like autumn leaves in the wind. Otabek looked down at the laden baskets in his arms. “I don’t know anything about medicine.”

            Instead of answering immediately, Viktor turned and started to walk along the shore. Otabek followed.

            “Several of the older folk seem convinced that I’ll upset the Good Neighbors if I’m left to wander unsupervised,” said Viktor. He didn’t turn to check if Otabek was following, and his words were nearly lost in the _shush-shush_ of the sleepy harbor waves breaking on the beach. “Cut the wrong flower, disturb the wrong rocks, toss a horseshoe into the spring.”

            Otabek decided it was best to keep his thoughts to himself. An image of the King’s shock at hearing Viktor’s glib words might have been amusing, had it not been for the thorns that lurked behind the glower. And then, there was the _each-uisge,_ whose predatory shadow stained the water like ink. He couldn’t fault Viktor’s critics for their worry.

            “I’ve no time for a nanny, but I assume you know your way around a boat.” Viktor’s loping steps carried him towards the town, and Otabek was forced into a half-jog to keep up once they left the uncertain footing of the shore. “Eòin judged you sensible enough. You know the plants?”

            “Some of them. Only by-“ _their proper names,_ Otabek almost said, remembering his mother’s quiet voice as she showed him sprigs of new growth. Her Gaelic was tinged with history; its lilt made the wrinkles and aches of age fall away from ageing faces as it carried memories of childhoods past and forgotten. She’d loved the land long before she grew to despise the sea. “I’ve helped to gather them before. I never learned their English names.”

            It didn’t seem to bother Viktor. Otabek couldn’t explain his own sudden hesitation, besides the uneasy disquiet of change that was reshaping the earth under his feet.

            “We both speak enough tongues that it won’t hurt to learn a few more words.”

            “No,” agreed Otabek. It wasn’t until a small smile curled the corner of Viktor’s lips that he realized that they’d switched to Russian, the change so smooth and natural that it passed without notice. “You haven’t had trouble before?”

            His smile grew melancholy. “Not as such, but my luck may turn soon.”

            They’d reached the town. Viktor veered into an alley, halting at a door that opened onto the cobblestones. The scent of baking bread and the crisp, savory trace of onion wafted out to Otabek, and he half-hoped he’d be invited to stay, even as he baulked at the thought of yet more socializing after so long alone with the sea.

            “I’ll take those,” said Viktor, gesturing to the baskets still looped over Otabek’s arms as he glanced into what must have been a kitchen. “Meet me at the dock tomorrow an hour before dawn. Afterwards, we’ll go by the eastern islets – the folks there are too proud to come to a foreign doctor, and your presence might find them more agreeable.”

            Otabek tipped his head in acknowledgement. They must be collecting kelp from the skerries in the morning, then, before the tide rose high enough that even the seals couldn’t find enough rock to rest upon. He turned to go, but an unfamiliar voice caught him.

            “Hold on,” the man said. “Vitya, you weren’t going to feed him? Here.”

            He thrust a cloth-wrapped package into Otabek’s hands. Heat seeped through the fabric.

            “Thank you.” Otabek blinked back his mild surprise as he inspected the new arrival – his hair, ruffled into spiky tufts by the kitchen’s warmth, was inky black and shone under the soft light, and the curve of his dark eyes were a jolt of familiarity Otabek hadn’t felt on the island since his father’s passing, aside from a handful of visiting sailors. It was possible that the man’s homeland was as far from where Otabek’s father had been born as the island itself was – his understanding of land beyond where it was brushed by the sea was sparse - but it was odd to remember that he hadn’t sprung from the ocean itself: that the island was not the world, the rest of which vanished into the mist once he set foot on the rocky shores.

            The island was a home people were born to and one that they left, yet Otabek had found three since the morning who had settled into its rocky cliffs. If they were connected to the _each-uisge –_ but no, he told himself. They seemed to be human, and were decidedly uneaten.

            He followed the still-familiar path back to Leo's cottage by the cliffs, wondering how much his home would change without him.

 

****

 

            Yuri didn't have to bite back a sigh of relief at Viktor's comment about _help from a local_ , but it was close.

            “You wouldn't need a babysitter if you actually paid attention,” he snapped around a bite of stew. Yuuri's promise about the lack of fish wasn’t broken. “You're just going to drag some poor sap into it with you - and what'll he do when you piss off something big? Other than be dessert, I mean.”

            “I haven't run into trouble so far,” Viktor replied, obnoxiously placid. He quirked an eyebrow at Yuri's snort. “Unless there's something you forgot to tell me?”

            Yuri sneered back at him and tore at a hunk of bread. The collection of close calls had been followed by an all-too-narrow escapes, and admitting them would be one thing had they been borne of Viktor's errors. However, the target of their dangerous curiosity had been the strange water horse who had appeared in their midst. Yuri had no urge to listen to another of Viktor's lectures, and Yuuri's quiet gaze from across the table was already too piercing for comfort.

            "Besides, I have a sense that this young man is a bit wiser than that. Seems to know the island very well. Perhaps better than you do, Yura.”

            "Really.” Humans, bound as they were to the land, would never understand it, no more than the trees understood the earth from which they sprouted. They'd never know the rocks and sand that made up the bottom of the harbor, nor the bubbling crash of waves heard as echoes from below the ocean's surface. Yuri might never comprehend the strange, illogical twists of the human mind, but he knew the water - and with that, he knew the island. “You think?”

            “Oh, quite possibly.” Viktor took a bite, his manners as impeccable as if he were dining with royalty. “I expect you'll run into him soon, small as town is. He gave his name as Otabek.”

 _Otabek._ Yuri sat back in his chair, dropping his cutlery. Droplets sprayed across the table.

            “Yura?” Yuuri prompted, setting down his own fork. “Is this… a problem?”

            “No. I don't think so.” Yuri turned back to his food, pushing down the flash of surprise. It made sense, when he stopped to think about it: if Otabek was so determined to play human, and he'd just come back to the island, the first thing he'd do would be to find work. Given who he was, and where they were, the docks would be the natural place to look. “Met him… this morning,” he continued, deciding not to mention their brief introduction the night before. “He's of the sea. Wasn't looking to start anything, so he'll probably want to avoid anything dangerous. Wouldn't put it past him to ditch you and bolt if it goes to shit, though.”

            "Glowing praise,” commented Viktor. It would have been irritating if he hadn't been sincere - and correct. Yuri glowered at him. “Are you two friends already?”

            "Nah,” he said, shrugging. He didn't have friends, anyway, not here - not other than Viktor and Yuuri, if they could be counted, and the _Cailleach_ who made her home in the hills on those days when she wasn't determined to make too much of a nuisance of herself. But Otabek… Otabek was interesting. "He wouldn't tell me what he was.”

            “Maybe he doesn’t want you to know.”

            But Viktor didn’t know what it was to hold such a secret, to pass up a chance of clear sight. Yuri felt the coin in his pocket, its weight proof that the ocean knew them both.

_Or maybe he wants me to find out._

 

****

 

            The sun shone with rare warmth, creating pools of heat in the rocks around Otabek as he watched the seals sprawling lazily across the beach. No more than scraps were left of the meal Yuuri had packed for him that morning, as he’d done every day for the past fortnight. Otabek picked crumbs from the waxed cloth and tossed them to the gulls that swooped and dove in dizzying circles overhead, crying and bickering among themselves. He shooed them away from the various seaweeds that had been spread out to dry the worst of the moisture from their rubbery blades before they were bundled and loaded into the rowboat.

            A ripple spread through the air, chilling Otabek more than the ever-present ocean breeze. The seals, startled, had heaved themselves from their tranquil lounges and were peering about with mistrustful eyes. Several of the more timid individuals had begun to haul themselves towards the water in their awkward, bouncing lurches.

            The air carried the scent of copper and petrichor. Otabek sprang to his feet just before a slender figure emerged from around the jagged outcropping of cliffs that sheltered the quiet shore.

            Yuri _._

            Otabek, standing between the seals and the _each-uisge,_ felt the tension rising like lightning in every fiber of his body. A predator and his prey – and Otabek knew all too well which side he belonged to, if Yuri were to determine his nature. He fought the urge to glance over his shoulder to see if the rest of the pod had noticed the current of danger and moved to the relative safety of the water – though, he realized a moment later, a water horse would only be all the more perilous beneath the waves. Otabek had no reason to believe that another selkie was among the group, but that was all the more reason not to leave them defenseless.

            Yuri moved closer and Otabek stepped forward, blocking his path. He was granted a toothy challenge of a smile.

            “You don’t claim the land, you told me.”

            It was something of a relief that Viktor, after the first day, had decided that Otabek was more than capable of collecting the necessary herbs and flowers without supervision. He would be on the main island, tending to those struck with the cough that had begun to sweep through the town in the two weeks since Otabek’s return.

            “No.” Otabek shifted, straining to hear the seals’ movement behind him over the rhythmic crash of waves.

            “And yet, I cannot walk where I please?” His green eyes flicked past Otabek, and he lifted a pale brow. “It _is_ forbidden to harm a seal, so I assume you’re acting out of concern for my safety.”

            “I wasn’t aware that you cared for rules beyond your own.”

            At that, Yuri laughed, as clear and smooth as glass. “Oh, you didn’t want to share, then?” Otabek bit down on his tongue, forcing himself not to recoil, and Yuri continued, “There are better hunts than this. I could show you, if you liked.”

            Something must have shown through in his expression, because Yuri paused, his shoulders stiffening.

            “You believe I mean the men in their toy boats, out on the waves? They hold no interest to me, unless we have history.” The smile remained, fixed and unchanging. Otabek refused to reply; his thoughts hadn’t been of the fishermen but of himself, wondering if he could outrun or outswim the brutal hooves. “Or perhaps the children who play by the loch? You have a cruel mind, Otabek... what are you, to have thought of that?”

            Enough was enough. Otabek twisted, moving just enough that he could see the shore without letting his eyes stray from Yuri – there were only a handful of gulls, picking at the remnants of his lunch. The seals, perhaps sensing his apprehension, were gone.

            Yuri followed his gaze. “It appears we’ve frightened them off,” he commented mildly. “Pity – I’m sure they were enjoying the sun.”

            With that, Yuri turned and walked back the way he came. Otabek was left alone on the empty beach.

            He collected the damp seaweed, rolling it into thick parcels that he tied in place with rubbery ropes of kelp. It was slippery under his fingers, still too wet to carry easily, but Otabek shied away from the thought of staying any longer than was necessary. Yuri’s visit had thrown him off-balance, leaving with the lingering suspicion that their meeting hadn’t been chance or circumstance. It bothered him that he couldn’t begin to discern the obscure motivation behind it.

            Otabek dragged the boat into the water, missing his sealskin a little more each time the hull scraped against rocks buried in the sand. It was too risky to bring it with him every day, and too hard to resist the pull of the sea with it so near – the temptation would push him to leave the island for another few months, years, decades. This time, he feared that it would be too changed upon his eventual return. If he left again, he would be able to find neither a home nor himself on its earth and shores.

            Climbing into the boat, knowing that the thin wooden shell was all that kept him above the waves, still sent a shiver down Otabek’s spine. It would be so easy for the ocean to destroy with a brush of her fingers, too small for her to notice the destruction of what didn’t belong. He couldn’t begin to fathom what – other than sheer necessity – had driven humans to the water, or what quirk of self-preservation allowed them to love it, to call it home.

            Sometimes, Otabek wondered if his own tug towards the depths was borne of his father’s blood rather than his selkie inheritance, if the fear of its touch wasn’t his mother’s gift to him. In the end, she had given it up, while his father had been taken. It was a fair exchange for the ocean, if not for Otabek.

 

****

 

            For as long as he’d been around humans – or as long as he could remember, at least – Yuri had wondered whether his world had more color to it, or if others simply didn’t bother to look. The ocean that they called grey or blue was a swirling maelstrom of glinting silver-green in countless different shades that faded to a deep purple black when night fell, interspersed with the iridescent scintillation of fish as they darted through the plants and rocks that made up the bottom of the harbor.

            He cut neatly through the water. Other than the brief glimpses of hooves and flank, Yuri was never sure what form he took, precisely, once the waves had closed over his head. On land, he could be mistaken for a normal horse, but he was sleek and streamlined underwater, made to move through the ocean with no more than a ripple on the surface to warn his prey.

            The strangeness about Otabek continued to grow. Yuri couldn’t tear his thoughts away from the unmistakable challenge on the beach, tossed at his feet and then withdrawn just as suddenly. Otabek held a constant undercurrent of tension, a step aside from anger or fear, but it was part of a standoffishness that was more than simple reticence.

            And then there was the moment where his expression had turned to stone after Yuri had offered his invitation. What life would lead Otabek’s first thoughts to such a point? He wasn’t ready to give up his initial judgment – Otabek still didn’t seem overly dangerous, nor would Yuri find himself too concerned if he did decide to start picking off the sailors, but it was… interesting.

            Of course, he had to worry about Viktor. The idiot would be helpless if Otabek turned out to be a problem, especially if Yuri wasn’t there watching him.

            Every time Yuri pushed, Otabek pushed back with equal force. It was the nature of the game, and it was a game that Yuri planned to win.

            The shadow of a rowboat passed overhead.

 _I watched you walk from the ocean._ Yuri wished he could speak, to let Otabek know that the façade was pointless. _Stop pretending to be human._

**:: :: ::**

            The currents that tugged at the oars lent their weight to the soreness that had set into Otabek’s shoulders. Scant weeks of rowing hadn’t been enough time for familiarity to harden his muscles, but it would come – but for now, at least, it seemed appropriate that crossing the sea’s surface should take more effort than traveling through it.

            A shadow skimmed through the water below him. On a cloudy day, the patchwork of dapples would have rendered it all but invisible betwixt the white-peaked waves, but the weak sunlight illuminated a flash of motion and an undulating ribbon, dissolving into a cloud of silver strands-

            Saltwater closed over Otabek’s head. Jags of ice shot through his veins as powerful jaws closed on his arm and he twisted, trying to jerk out of the _each-uisge’s_ hold. It wasn’t enough. He was outweighed a hundredfold, and weakened by the slow drag of his limbs.

            Sand and salt pricked at Otabek’s eyes, but he could see that the _each-uisge_ was as beautiful as a storm, and just as dangerous. Rushes of bubbles swirled and roared around his head, all but drowned out by the pounding of his heart. Dimly, as if his mind had been left in the rowboat, he knew that he should calm himself before the air in his chest was eaten away by panic.

            His legs lashed out, made contact – a muted screech echoed through the water - and he was rewarded with a sudden release of pressure as cuts blossomed like roses from his skin. They could have been shallow scrapes or bone-deep gashes – he couldn’t feel the sting, and had no thought to spare for comfort.

            The boat. He had to get to the boat.

            Razored teeth found Otabek’s calf, pinning him in place. He kicked again, but Yuri merely darted back through the water with Otabek in tow. What precious little air he had left was knocked from his lungs and black spots danced across his vision, floating up towards the surface with the bubbles of lost breath. A swell of fear struck him as he tumbled through the water as the truth of his predicament finally caught up with him, bounding past the mechanics of reflex and reaction.

            He wasn’t going to escape.

            Deeper and deeper they went.

            It was too much. Otabek couldn’t have reached the surface under his own power. The realization trickled through his mind, splintering, seeping, melting into the darkness.

            He wouldn’t breathe in. His chest screamed, but even that grew quieter as the moments passed. He couldn’t fight anymore, could barely fight his body’s thoughtless struggles for the air that was so far away.

**:: :: ::**

_Just show me what you are._ A groan of frustration rumbled in Yuri’s chest. Otabek had come to his island, taunted him with half-answers that flickered like a mirage. He’d started this, but even when Yuri won he refused to give in.

            Otabek stilled, his black hair a cloud of ink that framed his face in darkness.

 _Stubborn,_ Yuri thought, letting go. He watched carefully, waiting for a shift, a change, a victory. _What_ are _you?_

            Otabek’s eyes were half-closed, his skin bluish-green in the weak rays of sunlight that filtered through the water.

            He didn’t move.

            Sudden terror drove a spike into Yuri’s heart. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen, this wasn’t what he’d meant it to be. What creature of the sea had cause to fear the water? Who could walk from its depths one day, and succumb to them another?

            And yet, Otabek hung motionless before him. Yuri had been wrong, somehow. Sickness rose like bile, and he looked to the waves breaking so far above them – too far, farther than they’d ever felt before. He’d had no reason to feel their distance before.

            Otabek’s body was limp as Yuri pushed him up through the water, praying to gods he’d never had need to call on before. The air, when they reached it, was rich with promise and desperation. Yuri cast a frantic glance towards the shore; it was nearer than he’d feared, but still insurmountably distance.

            He shifted as they swam. It was more difficult to hold Otabek above the water with only a human’s size and strength, but they were reaching the shallows of the shore and Yuri couldn’t risk stepping on his prone form.

_I did this._

            “Fucking _breathe,_ ” Yuri growled as he heaved Otabek onto the beach, ignoring the stones that dug into his skin as he dropped to his knees. “You’re not allowed to die, I didn’t want…”

            Nothing. Otabek’s lips were bloodless in his newly pale face. A whine rose in Yuri’s chest, its low note carrying the fear he could not longer contain. He shoved Otabek onto his side, shaking his shoulder as if it was merely a deep sleep from which he could be roused.

            Otabek coughed, fighting for air with a high, strained whine. Saltwater trickled from between his lips and coursed down his face like tears. He heaved one shuddering breath, then another - deep, clumsy, rasping gasps before he fell back, his head resting against the wet pebbles beneath him.

            Yuri’s own racing heart slowed from a gallop to a jarring canter. At least for the moment, he was alive. Otabek’s face was waxy under the wet sheen, his eyes closed behind the sopping locks of dark hair that fell across his forehead. Yuri leaned forward to brush the hair from Otabek’s eyes, searching for an ember of warmth in too-pale skin. When he found it, insubstantial as the first spring breeze across the harbor, his fingers came to rest on Otabek’s cheek, tracing the sharp curve of his jaw.

            Another second, another few pulses of Yuri’s still-hammering heart. Otabek shifted, turning his face into Yuri’s palm. The movement was so small that it would have gone unnoticed if he hadn’t been searching for any response beyond the hoarse, unsteady rhythm of Otabek’s chest.

            Dark eyes opened halfway and Otabek blinked once, twice, three times before his dark gaze settled on Yuri. His stare had felt as deep and unyielding as the ocean beside them, but now it brimmed with horror and alarm - with fear.

            Otabek jerked back as Yuri snatched his hand away and shrank back, sand and rock grinding under his movements. He could hear the quick, sharp flutter of Otabek’s lungs. Yuri watched him sink down to the shore, unable to rise or retreat.

            Yuri sat back on his heels and keened, his piercing wail echoing across the harbor.

 

****


	4. An Treas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words that aren't in English will usually be Scots Gaelic or Russian. You can find a pronunciation guide, in order of appearance, [here](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1MAET97EtT4CWQgb3F7KnRuM5dU8P0utuG1ceO0EIU_g/edit?usp=sharing). 
> 
> [[spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/rrcopley12/playlist/0MaUoVVaZLEnMASeuJ0oD8?si=oYxoTkd0R4CfnhaZ71PjEw)] [[youtube playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLM2jZZqmXMPzAGsXroDwyBdIUSA_3Qi3w)] [[my tumblr](leopardprinttrashchild.tumblr.com)] [[image sources](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1J679ctfxm4iMTP-F6K7DzHRNjMFm5vcAa2ro9FaX03k/edit?usp=sharing)]

        Yuri knelt on the pebbly beach as the last echoes of his cry faded into silence. He watched Otabek, who lay motionless but breathing several feet away, from the corner of his eye – anything more would have felt like another assault. He should leave, that much was clear, but some part of Yuri whispered that it would be even worse to let Otabek stay, half-drowned and half-conscious, on the lonely shore.

        A harsh, rasping cough cut through the chilly air. Yuri started, letting his full gaze fall on Otabek before he could catch himself, and felt the rush of tension that flooded Otabek’s body. His dark eyes were no longer impenetrable - the flicker of vulnerability and fear brought a new wave of discomfort crashing down on Yuri’s head.

        This wasn’t supposed to happen.

        “I-“ Yuri began.

        The grinding spray of footsteps on pebbles and sand drew Yuri’s attention, and he twisted towards the sound. _Finally,_ he thought, fighting back a wave of relief that Viktor had heard him.

        “Yura,” called Viktor. His strides were clumsy on the wet sand and rocks. “Are you hurt? Is that-“

        Yuri nodded. He wondered, distantly, about the heat on his face and prickles of ice that were traveling along his spine. There was no hiding this – _why would I, this is what I am –_ from Viktor, not now. Not since he’d pulled Otabek from the tiny boat.

        But that would come later. Yuri stood and stepped back silently as Viktor took over, his vacuous cheer melting into calm surety.

        “Otabek, can you understand me? No, don’t try to sit up.” Viktor dropped to his knees, laying a hand on Otabek’s shoulder to halt his movements and putting an ear to his chest. “I’m going to listen to your lungs now. Breathe in, slowly, as deep as you can.”

        Yuri had been forgotten and allowed to fade into the background. The sand was cold against his bare feet. He shifted his weight, feeling it grate and grind underneath him. He could disappear into the water, leaving the questions and disappointment until after he’d found the bottom of the pit that had opened in his stomach. He could vanish entirely, if he wanted. The island had no hold on him.

        A soft hum of surprise jerked him from his daze, and he saw Viktor sit back as a flash of pale opacity covered the deep brown of Otabek’s eyes. _That’s what you get when you stick your fingers in someone’s face, Doctor Nikiforov,_ Yuri sneered to himself. Had Viktor not expected him to blink? Was Otabek that close to gone? But no, Viktor didn’t seem concerned.

        Humans didn’t generally have a third eyelid to protect them from sand and sun, Yuri remembered a moment later, but his spark of curiosity was dull, restless, and quickly quenched. It didn’t matter what Otabek was, however many eyelids he had. Why had he cared so much?

        “Good,” said Viktor, turning to Yuri. “How long was he under?”

        “I don’t… I’m not sure,” Yuri muttered, tipping his head as he searched Viktor’s face for further explanation. “Is it bad?”

        “No, I couldn’t hear anything wrong, and his responses are fine,” Viktor replied, but he frowned. Storms never came without warning, and the clouds were drawing in. “Yura. What happened?”

        The question hung in the air, its shadow drowning out the distant screeching of gulls and the waves’ ever-present susurrus. It was enough. Viktor’s expression tightened.

        “It wasn’t supposed to hurt him,” Yuri whispered. His voice felt as small as a rowboat in the open ocean, nothing more than a speck on the distant horizon. He wrapped his arms around himself, rocking onto the balls of his feet, and stared out into the ocean. “I just- I wanted to know.”

        “You were playing.” There was an edge to his words, gleaming like broken glass. “Yuri Plisetsky, you may be set upon your own life as a game, but-” Viktor shook his head as crystals of ice froze in Yuri’s veins. _His name._ Viktor had taken his name and wielded it against him. Yuri searched for the anger that should have flared to life in his blood, but found only a tight, restless ache. “Go. Now.”

        The sea swallowed him.

 

****

        “What was that?” Otabek tested his voice. It rasped against his throat. “He- Yuri, he…”

He’d woken as an unearthly howl split the air, inescapable: it reached beyond the burning of his chest and the dull, senseless swirl of his thoughts. It had been everything, everywhere, hanging over his head, permeating the rocky shore beneath him, digging into his back with sharp fingers. Then, it had softened and trailed away. Its absence had left Otabek feeling strangely empty, as if the sound had carved a new space inside of him.

        Part of him wondered if he was still under the water – if he would always be under the water, lost to the sea’s depths.

 _Do you have gills, Otabek?_ Yuri had asked, with a smirk.

        They could both be satisfied with the evidence that he did not, in fact, have gills.

        The look Viktor gave him was impenetrable. “Not something for you to worry about right now,” he replied. “Wait until your head is clear. Yuri will leave you alone.”

        He’d resurfaced in a nonsense world – a doctor who scolded a kelpie without fear or hesitation, the sea’s willingness to let go of her offerings. A fragment of sensation drifted through Otabek’s thoughts: a brush of warmth on his cheek, the pale face of the _each-uisge_ hovering above him. Terror, and not just his own, had dripped from the moment like the droplets of water trickling from Yuri’s hair. None of it made sense, none of it _could_ make sense. Otabek gasped for air and wondered what it was that filled his lungs.

        “ _Relax,_ Otabek.” Viktor was suddenly hovering above him, strands of silver hair falling across his face – lighter than Yuri’s, made of moonlight instead of sun. A young face and old hair, Eòin had said, but he’d been wrong, Otabek thought dazedly. Viktor was an old man in a young body. Like him. The idea made him laugh, and then cough.

        Leaden exhaustion was beginning to weigh down Otabek’s limbs. The day was suitably warm, if he could get away from the damp chill of the beach.

        “I appreciate your kindness,” Otabek told Viktor. He succeeded in sitting up, though he judged it would be yet another few minutes before he could come close to standing. Crawling would be safer. “I-“

        “Hey now,” interjected Viktor, alarmed. “Where are you trying to go?” He caught Otabek’s elbow, careful to avoid the shallow gashes marring his skin.

        Otabek considered. Leaving on his own may not have been the wisest course of action, but the concern in Viktor’s face was unexpected.

        Viktor sighed. “Lord, send me someone with sense. Folk will be around shortly to help you get back to town, and I want to keep an eye on you for at least the next day or so. And please, do not argue. I’ve had quite enough of young men and their stubborn commitment to idiocy today.”

        A crab, small enough to rest in a child’s palm, was scuttling around the knots of seaweed scattered across the shore. Otabek watched it pick through the detritus. “I’m older than you,” he informed Viktor, then thought, _I’m not supposed to say that._

        “And yet.” Viktor rolled his eyes. “Lie down before you pass out.”

        Otabek obeyed, too tired to protest or ask how Viktor knew that someone would come to help. As he dozed off on the damp shore, he thought about the way Yuri had looked at him: the quicksilver smirks and challenging glares were gone, and his face had been wet with more than seawater. He’d looked…

        Lost.

 

****

        Yuri swam as close to town as he dared before leaving the water. It wasn’t that he usually hid himself, except from those who would go searching, but at that moment he wished that he could vanish from every stare the world over.

        He ran to the docks.

        “Oi,” Yuri shouted, startling a young man into dropping a basket. It hit the boards with a soggy slap. “They need help around the bend. Find someone, now.”

        It was enough to start a scramble of motion - anyone who spent their life at the edge of the sea knew what it meant. Yuri watched the grim set of their faces as a small group gathered supplies – a makeshift stretcher, a worn tarp that he supposed was intended to serve as a temporary shroud - and hurried along the beach. He could have told them that the situation was neither so urgent nor so dire, but their haste was convenient.

        That was his task done, frustratingly simple though it was. He should fetch Viktor’s boat, left adrift on the waves, but for the first time in his life, Yuri didn’t find himself drawn to the sea. Instead, he turned his back on the waves and hurried through the streets, breaking into a run when he reached the low stone wall that marked the edge of town. Several strides beyond that, his run melted into a gallop as hooves replaced fragile human feet.

        Yuri didn’t slow until he’d jumped the brook that divided the gently rolling hills and the jagged outcroppings of rock and tangled forest beyond. The water burbled placidly beside him as he stumbled to a halt, letting his form shift and melt once again. He growled under his breath. It was a reminder of what he was, and what he wasn’t. At least he’d never lied about it, not like the _daoine sìth_ playing court under their rolling hills, or the gentle current that wove between smooth stones. Its teeth were as sharp as his own, but he had the manners not to hide his behind a false smile.

        The stream twisted as he followed it farther, narrowing, trading gentle ripples for sharp currents that smiled with gleaming teeth. It was no more than several paces across. The mossy boulders that made up its banks could be bridged with a child’s jump.

        He stayed well back from its edge. This wasn’t his ocean: beneath the surface, it etched a chasm into the earth whose depths would claim even a kelpie.

        Unlike humans, Yuri knew when to keep to himself… or he had, he thought ruefully. The discomfort settled on his skin again, clammy and clinging.

        “Don’t yell,” a warm voice murmured behind him.

        Yuri yelped and spun on his heel. “I wasn’t saying anything, hag,” he spat. “And don’t _do_ that.”

        “Oh?” Mila cocked her head, flicking strands of flame-red hair from her face. “But you were going to yell. Loudly.”

        He paused, considering, and conceded. Mila stared back at him silently until Yuri grumbled, “Well?”

        She blinked. “You came here. I was sleeping.”

        “You’re always sleeping.”

        “Of course I am. It’s nearly summer.”

        Yuri sat down and dug his fingers into the damp soil, rolling the pebbles and clumps of gritty clay between his fingers. It was cool against his skin. He wondered if it was yet frozen back home, if his grandfather was looking out over a realm of ice.

        Mila settled next to him. Her bare feet were white as frost on the backdrop of verdant green, lined with a tracery of delicate blue veins.

        “I almost killed someone,” he said eventually. “Just… just now.”

        She clucked sympathetically. “Oh, Yura. You can always try again.”

        “I didn’t mean to!” Yuri’s face grew hot, and his fingers closed around the grass and dirt. Tiny pops and snaps of pinged through his fingers as the roots snapped and came away, leaving him holding a tangled, messy clod. He clenched his fist around it. “I don’t-“ Yuri paused, considering the virtue of simplicity and tradition, and shook his head. “I don’t want to kill him. He wasn’t supposed to get hurt, he was... he wasn’t supposed to drown.”

        “Why did you drown him if you didn’t want him to die?” Mila grimaced, reminding Yuri of her thoughts on doing anything halfway.

        “I thought he had gills.” The grass in his hand was mangled beyond recognition, with only Yuri to remember that its life mere moments before. He placed it back into the gash in the turf and smoothed it out as best he could. Maybe the damage was less than it looked.

        Mila plucked the lump from the earth and tossed it into the stream in one smooth motion. “It’s only grass, Yura. More will grow.”

        “ _That_ could have grown,” he snapped back.

        “So?”

        “Well, now it definitely can’t.”

        In response, Mila yanked up another handful. That, too, went into the water with a splash that disappeared into the rippling currents.

        “Why don’t I want to go back?” he asked, eyeing the bare dirt. Viktor would be angry with him, and Yuuri disappointed; neither was out of the ordinary. Otabek… well. There was only one person whose opinion mattered to Yuri, and he wasn’t on the island. “It’s not like I can make it not happen, and he didn’t even die.”

        Mila shrugged.

        “You’re old, haven’t you dealt with this before?” grumbled Yuri.

        “I don’t remember,” she replied. “Are you sure you don’t want to kill him?”

        “Senile hag.”

        Yuri lay down and stretched. The sun was warm overhead, but it failed to melt the churning nausea that still rested in his stomach or soothe the prickling needles that teased at his skin.

        “He won,” Yuri murmured to himself. Silently, he added, _and I lost._

 

****

        If any doubt about his survival lingered in Otabek’s mind, it was well and truly wiped away by the misery of the trip back into town. Light clouds of giddiness evaporated, revealing the jagged cliffs lurking behind the mist.

        “Lucky you’re not like MacDhòmhnaill,” said one of the men, jerking his chin towards what appeared to be a mountain swathed in rough linen. “We’d have had to fetch Beitidh’s old nag to tow you back, and then pay up for ruining her horse.”

        MacDhòmhnaill’s laugh rumbled through the air like thunder. Otabek focused on moving his feet across the cobblestones. It was a symbolic effort – his entire weight rested on the men to either side, though either one alone could have slung him over one shoulder like an errant toddler. Otabek was too exhausted to have any pride left to abandon, and he would have requested just that if the thought of each giant, jarring stride hadn’t sent new bolts of pain through his skull.

        Everything hurt: Otabek’s head, his chest, his wrenched shoulder. He thought his very blood ached in his veins.

        The door opened, and Yuuri’s soft gasp disappeared into a flurry of motion.

        “- the kitchen,” said Viktor, his voice drifting hazily in and out of Otabek’s notice. “Near the stove, where it’s warm- no, not that near. Yuuri, if you could find some dry clothes…”

        He sank into the blankets and into dreams made up of saltwater and memories.

 

****

 

        “Still alive,” Otabek mumbled, drawing the blanket up around his ears.

        Instead of being met with Viktor’s gentle but insistent prodding, he was met with a soft laugh. Otabek sat up, wincing as his muscles twinged in protest.

        “Glad to hear it,” said Leo. He sat on the floor next to Otabek, wearing a smile edged with worry. He glanced around the kitchen. It was empty save for them – either it wasn’t time for supper or Yuuri was with guests in the pub proper – and Leo took his jacket from under his arm. “Here. I thought you might…”

        The fabric folded back to reveal sleek fur. Otabek pulled his sealskin to his chest, relief hitting him like his first breath of air above the waves.

        “I tried to bring it yesterday, but the doctor wouldn’t let me wake you up.” Leo sighed. The unfamiliar lines around his eyes and mouth were thrown into sharp relief.

 _I missed most of your life,_ Otabek thought suddenly. The time he’d run from was gone, and its only remnant was weathered skin and silver hair. He wanted to ask about those years, filling the gap between _then_ and _now._ The words stuck in his throat, not ready to be spoken aloud and made real.

        Leo filled the silence for him. “I always hoped you hadn’t gotten into trouble off the island, but it was here that I needed to keep an eye on you.”

        And he always had. A meal, a place to sleep, a conversation; Leo offered whatever Otabek had been willing to accept. Otabek swallowed the gravel in his throat and pulled Leo near, the embrace familiar but strange. It was part of a life he’d forgotten – no, one that he’d chosen to forget.

        “You made it,” Leo murmured. “Someone came by to tell me, said you were alive, but you were hardly here when you came back. I didn’t know what would be left after this.”

        “Thank you.” Otabek’s voice was hoarse with saltwater and things left unsaid. He sat back slowly.

        “Doctor Nikiforov told me you can come back tomorrow, if you feel well enough.”

        “You mean, you want someone else to milk Doilidh.” Otabek grinned. The massive horned ewe that grazed behind Leo’s cottage split her time between wanton destruction and terrorizing passers-by. “I’m sorry, I feel faint. You’ll have to go home to your demon of a sheep and leave me here with Yuuri’s cooking.”

        Leo’s laugh was bright with surprise. “I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since we were children,” he commented. “Are you sure you fell into the sea and not a pitcher of ale?”

        A sharp rap of knuckles against wood interrupted them. Viktor stood in the doorway with his pale brows creased into a tight frown.

        “Otabek, a word?”

        Leo stood and glanced to the bundle of fabric that hid the sealskin, a question in his eyes.

        “No, it’s fine,” Otabek told him. If Viktor hadn’t guessed what he was by now, he’d seen enough that it would make no difference, even if he hadn’t watched the _each-uisge_ gallop into the ocean without batting an eye. He handed Leo his jacket.

        Once the door swung shut, Viktor let out a deep sigh.

        “Yuri wants to talk to you,” he said bluntly.

        “Okay.” Otabek took a breath and climbed to his feet. Viktor jumped forward to steady him, half-guiding and half pushing him into one of the rough wooden chairs that lined the table.

        “It’s your decision,” said Viktor, draping a blanket over Otabek’s shoulders and sitting down next to him. “He’s sworn he means you no harm, and he’ll keep to that, but Yuri is… I don’t know what he’s thinking, what he wants. He’s- he doesn’t think like a human. What he does, why he does it, and most of the time he won’t explain, and when he does, we don’t understand. I couldn’t begin to tell you what he wants.”

        “Yes.” Otabek listened to what Viktor said, and what he didn’t say. There was care behind his frustration, as well as countless arguments and late nights filled with doubt. He wondered, as he had in moments of wakefulness between feverish dreams, how their unlikely family had come together. He thought about how his fear had been reflected in Yuri’s wide eyes. “I’ll speak with him.”

        Viktor stood, shaking his head, and turned to leave. “He’s promised to leave if you ask.”

        The kitchen smelled like a storm, like saltwater and lightning, as Yuri stepped in. 

 **:: :: ::**  

        The coin bounced across the pitted wood of the table and came to rest, shining black and silver in the afternoon’s fading light.

        Otabek didn’t spare it a glance. He sat motionless, watching Yuri from behind his veil of inscrutable silence.

        “Take it,” demanded Yuri. Otabek’s eyes looked darker than before, set in the uncharacteristic pallor of his face and framed with shadows as deep as bruises – Yuri met his gaze for an instant before looking away as the tangled cords in his muscles tensed and tightened. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

        “A ship sank off the western coast, where the cliffs reach out under the sea,” Otabek replied. His voice was low, the edges roughened and torn. A woolen blanket rested on his shoulders, and he pulled it more tightly around himself. “Leave it there, if you wish it gone.”

        The western cliffs, where Otabek had walked from the waves.

        “You suggest I carry it between my teeth?” Yuri curled his lip. “No. I want no more to do with it.”

        “Your fingers work as well as mine.” Something glinted in Otabek’s words, hidden behind layers that Yuri was too impatient to tease apart. He refused to sit and answer riddles, but Otabek offered nothing else – he simply waited, letting the hush grow until Yuri deigned to fill it.

        Yuri did.

        “What do you want?” he growled, throwing himself into the chair across from Otabek. “Put a name to your debt. I’ll not owe you.”

        “Owe?” Otabek wavered like a candle placed in an open window – unguarded, for the moment, and somehow taken by surprise. Two days before, Yuri would have counted that a victory. “What would I wish of you?”

        “That I should leave the island.”

        Otabek’s brows dipped into a frown, and Yuri was struck by the realization that his expression before had been no expression at all – his face had been waiting, giving nothing away because it had nothing to give. “No.”

        “Claim the land,” challenged Yuri. He dug a fingernail into the table’s edge, another half-moon divot among years of nicks and dents. “The sea too, if you like.”

        Still, Otabek watched. “You want to leave,” he said, finally. “Why don’t you?”

        Yuri bit his lip. He could clench his jaw, draw blood, and change nothing; he could hurry back to Russia carrying his burden of failure with pride and lay at his grandfather’s feet. Why didn’t he?

        “That’s no concern of yours. Why won’t you tell me what you want? You won. Let me be done with this.”

        “Then be done with it.”

        Something snapped inside of him, releasing a flood that longed to pull him into its depths and drown him from inside.

        “I nearly killed you!” shouted Yuri. The edges of the coin bit into his palm – it was in his hand, for all that he’d sworn not to touch it again. He slammed it onto the table. The copper pots hanging on one wall rattled. Otabek blinked and leaned away. His voice dropped to a hiss, low and crackling like embers. “You’re afraid of me, and you’d be a fool if you weren’t. You’re a fool anyway, pretending that you feel nothing. Don’t lie to me. You’re angry, Otabek, and you’re scared. I saw it, on the beach. You would have run from me then, if you could.”

        This time, it was Otabek who looked dropped his gaze. “I don’t curse the ocean for every sunken ship.”

        “Don’t you?”

        Slowly, Otabek lifted the coin from where Yuri had left it. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting each side anew.

_King._  
_Shield.  
_ _King._

        “Perhaps I do,” he murmured.

        Yuri sighed. He felt as if he’d been the one held under the waves, left to wash up on the shore when the tide fell.

        “I don’t fear you,” Otabek added softly. “Not anymore.”

        “Why not?”

        “You were afraid, too, after. I thought it was a dream, but you were as frightened as I was,” he said. “I’ve been wondering why.”

        “I didn’t want you to die. I never did.”

        “But why should it matter to you if I had?”

        “I don’t know,” whispered Yuri. “If you’d fallen from the boat, I might have helped. I might have left you. I don’t know why this is different.”

        “I know what I’d like from you.” The corner of Otabek’s mouth curled into what might become a smile, if he allowed it to bloom.

        Yuri’s breath was heavy, full of tension, weighed down by Otabek’s words. He nodded.

        “Tell me why you tried to drown me.”

        “I wanted to know what you were.” Yuri blinked at him, measuring Otabek’s reaction, and saw his wry smirk grow thoughtful. “Is that all?”

        “An apology is customary.”

        Yuri bit back a growl. “I’m sorry for almost killing you,” he managed. “Anything else?”

        “Promise not to do it again?”

        This time, he couldn’t hold back his exasperated snarl. Otabek’s laugh sparkled between them like sunlight.

 


	5. An Ceathramh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the missed update last week. Shit, uh, went down. 
> 
> Words that aren't in English will usually be Scots Gaelic or Russian. You can find a pronunciation guide, in order of appearance, [here](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1MAET97EtT4CWQgb3F7KnRuM5dU8P0utuG1ceO0EIU_g/edit?usp=sharing). 
> 
> [[spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/rrcopley12/playlist/0MaUoVVaZLEnMASeuJ0oD8?si=oYxoTkd0R4CfnhaZ71PjEw)] [[youtube playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLM2jZZqmXMPzAGsXroDwyBdIUSA_3Qi3w)] [[my tumblr](leopardprinttrashchild.tumblr.com)] [[image sources](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1J679ctfxm4iMTP-F6K7DzHRNjMFm5vcAa2ro9FaX03k/edit?usp=sharing)]

        Yuri galloped beside the clifftops. He teased at its edges, his mane dancing in the sea breezes that gusted up the rocks, and pulled away. Seabirds screeched and whirled, unhappy with his proximity to the nests they'd built in the sheer stone; he snapped at any careless bird whose wings passed near.

        He ignored the man who watched from a distance, faceless and nameless against the hills.

        The lightness in Yuri’s steps belied the heavy weight of his thoughts, which were as restless as the stormy ocean.

        His grandfather had been right. The island had welcomed Yuri. There was space for him in its nooks and crannies, in the rush of the tide, a place where he could fit without carving off pieces of himself. It was more than Russia's frozen earth had ever offered, even under his grandfather's coaxing… but it wasn't the island that was the problem. Yuri was the one who couldn't accept its invitation.

        Maybe it was in his nature to announce his presence with scars instead of smiles. His grandfather had spent enough time cleaning up the shards left in his wake before passing the duty on to Viktor and Yuuri; it was what Otabek had expected of him from the moment he whispered _each-uisge_ with misgivings on his tongue, and Yuri had proven him correct.

        It wasn't the first time that Yuri had wondered who he'd been before Nikolai Plisetsky carried him from the icy banks of the Moskva River with Gaelic on his tongue and fog in his thoughts, but it hadn't mattered before - not even the times his grandfather found him standing in the river, the salt of his frustrated tears taunting him with everything the current that wrapped around his knees could never be. It was only now, as he stood where everyone told him he was supposed to belong, that Yuri found himself thinking about all the ways in which he still didn’t fit.

        The rules were different here; in mere moments, a fact could melt and reform into something no more solid than a dream, or a child’s tale could blot out the horizon like a storm.

        Not everything had changed. _Yuri_ hadn’t changed. He wouldn’t allow the island to wear his edges smooth, grinding away at him until whatever was left could rest unnoticed on the shore. He’d been told to make himself fit, so he would carve out a space that gave him room to stand.

        No, some things were the same, Yuri thought, slowing to a canter. He was still being watched. The man’s face was close enough to make out now – it wasn’t set with Otabek’s tense reticence, but brimming with a hunger that Yuri knew well.

        It was a challenge.

        Yuri made sure that the stranger could see him as he followed the cliffs to their edges and down to the harbor.

 

        He walked back through town without bothering to hide his bare feet or the salt drying in his hair. Yuri’s grandfather had never told him to hide – that was Viktor, who came with him to an island full of people who left dishes of milk on their doorsteps every night and refused to set foot in a fairy ring. Some of them may have forgotten why, but they remembered the rules. In their bones, they knew that the land wasn’t theirs and theirs alone.

        Yuri could hear voices as he approached the narrow alley door that led into the kitchen. He paused to listen.

        “- agreed that it isn’t fair to you, especially as Yuuri could use the help in the kitchen,” said Viktor. Underneath the carefully constructed smoothness of his voice was the same edge he used so often on Yuri.

        “That isn’t necessary.”

        “It’s not about what’s necessary, Otabek. There’s plenty of work here, and I’m not going to ask you to get back in a boat.”

        “Why wouldn’t I?” asked Otabek. Though Viktor sighed, the question was genuine – Otabek might not say all of what he was thinking, but Yuri had quickly learned that he didn’t hide behind human half-truths.

        “You nearly died. It’s natural that you wouldn’t want to,” Viktor replied. The following silence grew and stretched as Otabek waited for him to continue. “Most people wouldn’t. They’d be… afraid.”

        An uncomfortable sensation twisted in Yuri’s gut. He’d put a name to it at last: _guilt_. He wondered when it would leave.

        “I see why you and Yuri seem to understand each other,” Viktor said at last. “Lord knows the rest of us don’t. By the way, the boat was found floating by the docks. Yuri insists he had nothing to do with it.”

        “I’ll come by tomorrow morning, then,” said Otabek, an undercurrent of humor flickering in his voice like a candle’s flame. Yuri smiled to himself. It felt like a secret that belonged only to them, something special and private; a language no others could speak.

        “No, you _won’t_ ,” snapped Yuuri, announcing his entrance with the soft _thunk_ of a bag of flour hitting the table. “Two days ago you were unconscious. If you show up for anything other than dinner than the rest of the week-”

        Yuri decided that it was his moment to join the conversation. He opened the door and slipped in. “You’ll ask me to throw him back in the harbor?”

        “ _Yuri,_ ” sputtered Viktor, “You-”

        Oh. Yuri winced. He wasn’t supposed to say that. Three pairs of wide eyes turned to Otabek, whose face had jumped into a mask of startled surprise. But no, that wasn’t right – Otabek turned in on himself, he didn’t let the world see his thoughts…

        A soft chuckle broke the tension. Otabek’s gaze was warm as he lifted a hand in both a greeting and a goodbye, leaving the way Yuri had just come in.

        “You should have known he wouldn’t want to work the kitchen,” Yuri commented. “It’s not like the sea is more dangerous than it was before.”

        Viktor exhaled, pressing pale fingers into his temples. “Yura, humans don’t see it-”

        “You don’t think like us.” Yuri grinned. It was nice to be an _us_ instead of an _other._

        A puff of dust rose from the sack of flour Yuuri had dropped onto the table as he began to scoop it into the ceramic storage pot. “You’re in a better mood than you were this morning, Yura. Did something happen?”

        “Not yet.” Yuri stretched his arms overhead and rolled his shoulders as Viktor looked up sharply. “Someone remembers.”

        “You were seen?” hissed Viktor, and Yuuri blanched. “Of all things, I thought that this would make you think about your _games._ ”

        “I’m not the one starting this one.”

        “Yura, we’re only-” Yuuri began. The worry in his soft brown eyes pricked at Yuri like brambles, and he tossed his head to shake the sensation away.

        “I’m not yours to own and command,” he growled. “Or do you want to try? You have my name already. Maybe you’d fare better than the others.”

        He glanced from Viktor to Yuuri, who stood in stunned, still silence, and stalked away.

  


  


        “Do you know them?”

        Otabek watched from the corner of his eye as Yuri settled on the ground beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin but not touching, never touching. He’d begun to appear unexpectedly – he peeked from behind open doors, or popped up on the other side of Leo’s ill-tempered old ewe as Otabek milked her.

        Before, Otabek would have resented the intrusion, if he’d thought to notice it at all. Now, he found himself waiting for the stream of inconsequential questions that never sated the gleam of curiosity in Yuri’s gaze.

        “Yes,” answered Otabek, and Yuri leaned forward to make out the names engraved in the stone, half-hidden by the evening’s gloom. The church rose in front of them. Its crumbling corners faded into the distant cliffs, as if remembering the rocks they’d been carved from.

        “Family?”

        “No.” The gravestones were silent, but Otabek could hear María’s laugh as she turned to Ròidh and asked when they’d had another child and why he hadn’t informed her. The thought made him smile. It was a gentle touch from an absent hand even as an emptiness hung heavy inside of him. “Almost. They’re Leo’s parents.”

        “I thought they were yours.” Yuri looked up and around, as if he hadn’t realized where he was until that moment. He pulled his knees to his chest, resting his head on top of his folded arms. “Do you want me to leave?”

        Otabek’s hands lay in his lap. He lifted one, showing Yuri the coin. It gleamed even in the dusk – the sea’s tarnish was slowly wearing off under their fingers. It must have shone like moonlight before falling to the ocean floor. “My answer hasn’t changed.”

        “Not what I meant and you know it,” Yuri snorted. “If you insist on talking like our insufferable neighbors, I’ll be tempted to drown you more thoroughly this time.”

        Yuri frowned as Otabek turned to him with wide eyes. “I wouldn’t- I’d let you get back out!” he added, cringing and tugging anxiously at a lock of golden hair.

        Otabek smirked. “That’s twice.”

        “Your idea of a joke leaves something to be desired,” Yuri growled back. “You’re lucky I’m nice.”

        “Why did you think they’re my parents?”

        “The name.” Yuri shrugged. “Doesn’t sound like the other names here. Neither does yours.”

        “Leo’s father was a sailor. He was born here,” Otabek said quietly. “Those who wanted to leave found themselves on a ship or in a mainland factory, and even the sea is kinder than that. Ròidh met María in Mexico– and she loved the island as much as she loved him.”  
The memory was bittersweet on his tongue. As a child, Otabek had asked Ròidh if he still wanted to leave. _It’s home_ , Ròidh eventually replied, but his eyes were on María. He hadn’t understood then.

        “Mexico.” Yuri named it carefully, tasting it, feeling its shape. “Where’s that?”

        Otabek tipped his head. “West across the ocean - the Americas. Maybe a week by ship. Do you know of it? ”

        “Why should I? I’m here, not there.” With that, Yuri lost interest; Otabek saw his eyes flick away, refocusing on something in the distance. “She has two names.”

        “De la Iglesia, before she married,” Otabek explained. “Her husband’s, after.”

        “She gave up her name?” Yuri sat up straight, affronted. “Why?”

        “Tradition. Humans here do.”

        “Yuuri and Viktor didn’t.” He paused. “I don’t think they did. They better not have.”

        With a quiet laugh, Otabek stood and brushed the soil from his clothing. “Come on, Yuri. Let’s leave them their peace.”

        As the churchyard gate latched behind them, Yuri turned from the sea. His hair fell forward, hiding his face. Otabek followed, letting Yuri lead him past the derelict farmsteads that were scattered across fields long overgrown and lost to the edges of the hills. He marked them as he they walked, counting the years they’d been standing empty by the thickets of briar that threaded through their windows, a tapestry of thorns and stone.

        “Humans really give up their names?” asked Yuri, breaking the silence. “Willingly?”  
Otabek turned the question over in his mind. “No, I suppose not, much of the time,” he replied. “Though I don’t know that names are so important to them.”

        “They should be. How do they know who they are, without their names?”

        The stream burbled and rippled. Otabek climbed over, taking care to find his footing on the bridge of mossy boulders, and waited. Yuri didn’t make a move to cross, though he eyed the water. After a moment, Otabek picked his way back to rejoin Yuri on the other bank.

        “My mother didn’t have a name,” Otabek murmured. It didn’t feel right to speak of her aloud in the open air: not because she might appear, but because she wouldn’t. “She said that their only use is to tell other people who you are, and that she knew herself well enough already. My father called her Flòraidh.” He tried to still his mouth, but the words didn’t feel like his own. It was his story, yet it wasn’t – not anymore. They broke on his tongue. “She didn’t speak English when they met, and he didn’t speak Gaelic. He brought her flowers and she taught him their names, and when she told him she had no name, he called her-“ Otabek swallowed. She’d laughed every time. “Flòraidh.”

        Yuri listened with the same searching interest he'd turned towards the gravestones. His eyes were huge and luminous in the darkening night - green as the grass they walked upon, and old as the hills underneath. “Are they there too?”

        It wasn't what he wanted to ask, or what Otabek heard in the soft hush of his own indrawn breath. Acrid smoke seeped through the years and rose in his throat, making his eyes water and nose fill with the remnants of the last, charred chance. His mother stood by the fire that crackled in his mind. She watched as the fur sparked and curled into ash.

        “No.”

        He waited for Yuri to speak, to give into the tension that rippled under his skin. It was another game he played, the rules he toed but never broke.

        "Twice you've asked me what I am,” Otabek said into the rising breeze. “Ask again.”

        “I'll not ask thrice. Offer it freely.”

        Otabek exhaled.

        The coin arched through the air. Yuri caught it.

  


  


        For once, Yuri didn’t have to wait for Mila to show up. She sprawled out across the grass and blinked lazily up at them, not bothering to sit up. “Hello again.”

        “She’s not _quite_ as obnoxious as Viktor,” said Yuri, rolling his eyes as he turned to where Otabek had stood beside him. “She-”

        He looked down. Otabek had dropped to one knee, his head bowed, and Mila watched him with a smirk as she propped herself up on her elbows.

        “What the fuck?” he asked. “I’m trying to introduce you.”

        “We’ve met before,” Mila replied. She didn’t take her eyes off of Otabek. “Haven’t we, Beka?”

        “ _Cailleach Bheur,_ ” murmured Otabek.

        Yuri glanced between them, and Mila caught his confusion. Her grin widened. “Ah, Yura, it’s fun to see how little you know. Beka, perhaps you should introduce us.”

        Otabek nodded, finally lifting his face. “Yuri,” he said quietly. “Beira, Queen of Winter. The _Cailleach_.”

        The earth shivered under their feet and Yuri’s breath caught in his throat. “You said _a cailleach_. You said-”

        “I’m not everyone I have been, nor am I everyone I will be,” she replied mildly. The blue of her eyes was now the icy grey of a storm-filled sky, and her veins were stark and blue under nigh-transparent skin, but Mila’s- Beira’s- hair was the same bloody red.

        “You lied to me,” Yuri breathed, but as he spoke he knew it wasn’t true.

        “I answered all that you asked,” she told him. “And matched all that you gave. You didn’t wish to tell your story.”

        “I don’t know my story!” he snapped, stepping back. “You- do you?”

        Her smile didn’t change. “Are you angry with me, Yura? That one is.” She gestured to Otabek, who hovered forgotten in the background, and tutted. “Or perhaps he’s just angry, now.”

        The island held a history that Yuri wasn’t part of, pieces of himself that he would never uncover. It would never be his.

        “Well then, I see you two are already friends,” he snarled, narrowing his eyes. “Forgive me for wasting your time – you’re _of_ _your_ _island,_ after all.”

        Yuri turned to leave, already craving the freedom of the cliffs and sea. His gaze passed over Otabek.

        Otabek’s expression wasn’t the carefully controlled mien of before; his face was as open as it had been on the shore, laid bare before them, but his eyes were empty. His lungs might not have been filled with water, but he was drowning all the same.

        Yuri paused. “Otabek?”

        “It’s not my island,” Otabek croaked, scrambling to his feet. “I don’t want it. I didn’t want it.”

        “See you later,” Mila called cheerfully.

        “Oi!” Yuri shouted. Otabek was down the bank and halfway across the stream before Yuri could move, but he gritted his teeth and followed. “Where are you going?”

        “Leaving,” Otabek muttered, striding quickly in the direction of Leo’s house. “I shouldn’t have come back.”

        “What the fuck are you talking about?”

        “She doesn’t like me, could you tell?” Otabek’s laugh was dark and humorless.

        “And that’s why you’re going?” Yuri reached for the hem of Otabek’s shirt before stopping himself. “I’ll make her promise to leave you alone, she owes me.”

        “I never apologized to her,” continued Otabek. His lips curled into a grimace. “She won’t forget.”

        “Okay, so do that.”

        “No. I can’t.”

        “You can’t fucking _leave,_ either!”

        Otabek stopped short, and Yuri slammed into his shoulder. “What reason have I to stay?”

        “Your friend lives here,” said Yuri, puzzled. “You- the island.”

        “Leo has his own life. I haven’t been part of it for a long time.” Otabek’s sigh crackled in the air, heavy with something shadowed and ancient. “The island takes everyone, in the end. He’ll be no different.” He started to walk again.

        Yuri caught Otabek’s wrist, feeling the tension that burned under his skin. “Why did you leave?”

        Otabek shook his head.

        “Why did you leave?” Yuri repeated.

        “Will you ask three times?”

        Yuri dropped Otabek’s hand and closed his eyes. “No.”

        “Ask me again,” whispered Otabek. “Ask me why I left.”

        “I-” Yuri inhaled, squaring his shoulders. “Why did you leave?”

        The promise flickered and bound them.

        “My father died,” Otabek said quietly. “A fisherman, in an early winter storm. Everyone here has a story like that. My mother and I were away. We didn’t find out until we came back, weeks later.”

        “That’s why.” Yuri bit his lip. It was the same water he’d pulled Otabek into and then out of once more.

        “No.” Otabek’s voice was raw. “My mother left- she left the sea. She asked me to come with her. I said no. I couldn’t give it up. What we are. What I am.”

        Yuri opened his mouth, but held his silence. That wasn’t why, either.

        “I left when I realized she would never come back,” Otabek said at last. “I wanted to forget, but I couldn’t. Not here.” He looked up at the sky, its grey clouds tinged with the promise of summer. “Nowhere else, either.”

        Otabek stood as if he’d forgotten how to move, how to breathe – how to leave the past behind instead of becoming part of it. Yuri stepped closer. He thought of the fear in Otabek’s eyes as Yuri’s fingers brushed his cheek, and how he’d turned his face into the touch. Yuri did the same now, gently tipping Otabek’s face back to _now._ His eyes were wet.

        “I don’t want you to leave,” Yuri told Otabek, told himself. “You belong here. You- I know why you wouldn’t claim the island,” he added, the understanding blooming. “It’s claimed you.”

        Otabek stiffened before leaning into Yuri, no longer able to summon the will to hold himself upright. “I thought things were different,” he admitted. “I thought I was different, after-”

        “After I almost killed you?”

        “Yes.”

        Yuri dropped to the ground, pulling Otabek down to sit next to him. It felt safer, as if Otabek might collapse or bolt at any moment. “Why?”

        “You could have left me, pretended there had just been an accident. Told me not to say anything, if you liked. Instead, you stayed until Viktor made you go.” Otabek didn’t smile, but his expression softened. “Viktor didn’t have to help, but he brought me to his home, and Yuuri talked to me about where he was from when I dreamed.”

        He didn’t have to ask what those dreams had been about. “I don’t want you to leave.”

        Otabek watched him, waiting.

        “Stay,” Yuri said. “Please.”

        He nodded slowly.

  


 

        Otabek smiled to himself as Yuri charged down the shore, sprays of saltwater shining under his hooves. He was showing off, tossing his mane and arching his neck before striking at the pebbles and sand, and Otabek knew that Yuri could see him atop the cliffs.

        He began to pick his way down the narrow staircase carved into the rockface, carefully clinging to the handholds, mere cracks hidden behind blossoms of lichen. The stone was slippery with the afternoon’s rain.

        Below him, a figure was approaching Yuri, who froze and began to retreat into the water. Otabek quickened his pace as the stranger edged around, blocking the sea and pinning Yuri to the cliffs. _Idiot,_ he thought, cursing the slowness of his descent. Of course the ocean would drown anyone who threw themselves into its depths.

        Otabek was just close enough to make out the cold determination on the man’s face as he leapt forward, avoiding a bone-shattering kick and grabbing a fistful of Yuri’s mane. Yuri twisted and fought, lunging backwards. Otabek’s heart lurched. Before, he might have stopped it, but the stranger – part of Otabek hoped it was a stranger - was going to die in front of him.

        The water was nearly up to Yuri’s withers when the man looped a bridle over Yuri’s head. It glinted silver in the weak, cloudy light.

        Yuri stilled, suddenly calm. Otabek was only halfway down the cliff’s face.

        He watched helplessly as the man led Yuri away, docile on his lead.


	6. An Còigeamh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I need more time to resolve this so ONE MORE CHAPTER AFTER THIS don't @ me I'm bad with outlines and I know it.

        The _daoine síth_ played all their games with weighted dice, with gilded rules that shone so brightly none could see the rot underneath until it was too late. When no one would come near, they raised their pretty promises, speaking empty lies with every word of truth. They were too afraid to lose. Vain, prideful creatures – no wonder they were content to hide in their hills playing court.

        Yuri’s blood had begun to sing the moment the bridle’s silver brushed his skin, binding him to the land, to the man whose face shown and chest heaved with fear and exhilaration as their eyes met. Most would have failed already, been dashed to blood in the waves when they let their gazes drop to the water, already doomed from the moment their greed whispered to mix the silver with iron or brass.

        He didn’t turn to look when Otabek’s hoarse shout fell from the cliffs. Yuri wasn’t one of the _d_ _aoine síth,_ and he wouldn’t break his own rules… but, if he let himself glance back, the game might change.

        Still, he wasn’t surprised when a shadow slipped in to join him that night.

        “I won’t leave with you,” Yuri said, staring at the bridle that hung loose in Otabek’s hands. “You know the stories.”

        “I know the stories,” replied Otabek. The hint of sweetened sadness had returned to his words, as it always did when he spoke of the past. “You’re not much like them.”

        Yuri recoiled. His cheek burned as if Otabek had struck him, and he sneered. It was one thing to be seen without shadows or masks, and another for the viewer to blind themselves against the sight. “I’m exactly like the stories, Otabek. Have you forgotten?”

        Instead of retreating, Otabek stepped forward until the distance between them was an idea instead of a fact. “You had me promise not to leave,” he whispered, softly as a secret. “I was afraid to ask you the same.”

 _The island takes everyone, in the end._ That’s what Otabek had said before.

        “I haven’t left,” Yuri murmured into Otabek’s neck. “Beka, I didn’t leave you.”

        “A year and a day.” Otabek pulled away and looked out at the night sky, as if it might have a different answer. “That’s how long you’re bound here, isn’t it?”

        “A year now. A year for him to make a mistake.” Yuri smiled, then – the lure of a challenge was too much to resist. That was what the _daoine síth_ had forgotten, what it was to carve out one’s place instead of retreating to the scraps they’d been left. What it was to win, without trickery or lies. To belong. “More than enough time for him to remember that men have never tamed the sea, and that the land was here before them and will be here after.”

        Otabek stiffened. “You have a place here because you’ve chosen it. The island doesn’t play games, and humans will never set free what they have a mind to take. They might not have chained the ocean yet, but they’ll keep at it until they do.”

        “Then that’s all the more reason to remind them to keep their fingers from the fire lest they’re burned,” retorted Yuri, though his thoughts turned to the ever-larger ships that prowled the water, the steel and smoke that filled Moscow with noisy, clanging heat. That hadn’t touched the island, not yet. “This will be as it has been. If he’s smart, if he obeys the rules, he’ll have his year – I’ll win his races and tow the millstones, and he’ll spend the rest of his life remembering what it was like to fly.”

        “And if he makes a mistake?”

        Yuri shrugged. They both knew the answer already. After all, Yuri was exactly like the stories. “He made his choice.”

        The quiet sadness lingered in Otabek’s eyes. It would take longer for him to trust - not the island, Yuri realized, but anyone else. Otabek still expected to be left on the beach, alone and half-drowned.

        “Don’t ask me to go with you,” Yuri said, catching Otabek’s wrist and drawing him in. “The first time I’ll refuse, and the second. The third… I’m not sure. Don’t ask me to be what I’m not.”

        Otabek nodded. It was clear that he didn’t trust the words not to speak themselves if he gave them a chance, but he turned into Yuri like it was all the promise he needed. His kiss was as slow and quiet as his voice, and his hands gentle in Yuri’s hair said what all his careful words hadn’t. He tasted of salt.

        And yet, he didn’t ask Yuri to go with him.

        “I offered to show you where to find more interesting prey than seals, once,” Yuri commented. It had been funny to see so many pairs of dark eyes watching him as he’d come around the bluff, a silent, skeptical audience with Otabek at its head. “Remind me.”

        “I- you-” For someone with so few words to begin, Otabek didn’t manage being wordless gracefully. “That was-”

        “Have you not been courted before?” asked Yuri, just to watch the red flush stain Otabek’s cheeks. It was somewhat spoiled by the darkness – in daylight, he would have been scarlet. Yuri smirked. “Perhaps you should pay more attention.”

:: :: ::

        Otabek shook his head as Viktor glanced past him into the alley, searching for Yuri’s blond hair in the darkness.

        “He’ll not leave,” Otabek said, unable to summon anything more than weariness in his voice. The airy relief that Yuri was nowhere he didn’t want to be, the hot touch of their kisses, had turned to shackles locked around his wrists when Yuri bid him to return the bridle and bind him to his hoofed form. Otabek thought of his sealskin, locked away in a cellar or fed to a fire’s hungry maw, and shuddered. It was a sport that gambled all too dear.

        Viktor cursed under his breath, bitter and unsurprised. He, at least, had never expected another outcome, but that didn’t soothe its sting. Yuuri appeared in the doorway behind him. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion.

        “We can try again, in a few days,” Viktor muttered at last, to Yuuri’s agreement. “He’ll grow bored. You’ve interested him more than his games.”

        “No.” Otabek’s weariness grew, weighed down by an understanding he didn’t want. “He’s not entertaining himself.”

        “Have you gone daft?” Viktor snapped, pacing back and forth across the kitchen. “What else does Yura do?”

        “You’ve not been left behind as the world changed,” retorted Otabek, rare irritation sparking. It shouldn’t be his duty to defend Yuri’s choice, not as much as it tore at him. “You’ve not had to fight for your place in it.”

        A sharp glance from Yuuri stilled his tongue, and Otabek sighed. “I’ll not go back. Don’t ask it of me.”

        Yuri had told him not to, and it hurt less than if Otabek had been forced to admit to himself that he couldn’t. It was too much to walk away once.

        “Let’s sit down,” Yuuri said into the silence. “Vitya, you’ll wear a hole in the floor.”

        Viktor settled, but his fingers continued to tap a nervous rhythm against the wood of the table. It was echoed in the set of Yuuri’s shoulders as he retrieved the kettle from over the fire, and in the unsteady catch of Otabek’s breath.

        “How did you come to be here?” asked Otabek. It wasn’t something he’d thought to bring up before, caught up in Yuri’s eternal present. The past simply couldn’t keep up with him, a creeping _was_ to his whirling _is._ Now, however, he wanted the distraction, and the promise that the world was steadier than it felt.

        “I did a favor for Yura’s grandfather.” Viktor grimaced. “The sort of favor where you’re not given much of a choice – one of Yura’s tantrums brought him to the city, which isn’t kind to those who can’t weather the touch of iron. I treated him and Yuuri taught him what he could of the world, as Nikolai didn’t know much more of the details than Yura did.”

        “Yuri’s not as careless as he was,” Yuuri added, joining them at the table. “He was… wild, then. Nikolai worried for him, and we began to as well, once everything was less- well, once it was clear that Yuri’s grandfather hadn’t much of a choice in how he went about getting Viktor’s assistance.”

        Viktor snorted, and Otabek found himself nearly smiling. After experiencing Yuri’s idea of a polite introduction, he could only imagine what his grandfather must be like.

        “Not that Yuri did much to endear himself to us either,” said Viktor, rolling his eyes. “Wild is an understatement.”

        “I can imagine,” murmured Otabek, remembering the instant the harbor closed over his head.

        “No, you really can’t,” corrected Viktor. “What you’ve seen of Yura is not who he was in Russia, hemmed in by people and cities and with nothing more than a stretch of river. It’s a wonder that even Nikolai could control him.”

        It was a small wonder that Yuri was so determined to fight for his spot on the island, then. He’d never learned to do otherwise. Otabek watched as Yuuri lined up cups for their tea, filling three before pausing and setting the fourth aside with a sigh. Maybe it would have been different, if Yuri understood the place he already had.

        Or perhaps he did, and it wasn’t enough. Otabek felt keenly the emptiness of the land without family to meet, and he couldn’t say it was enough to belong to a family and not the earth one stood upon.

        “You asked how we came to be here, not how we met Yuri,” Yuuri said, sipping his tea. His bottom lip was red and raw where he’d bitten it. It would be a long night, and not one for silence. “There’s quite a bit more to that story, as you might have guessed.”

        “Yes,” agreed Otabek, seizing the opening with relief. His own thoughts used to be company enough – but, recently, Yuri had stood at his shoulder more often than not. “Many leave the island, but only a few find it.”

        “That was the intent. Small, remote...” A drop of tea splattered on the table as Viktor set his cup down with a little too much force and not enough care. He trailed a finger through it, writing a word only he could read. “We did Nikolai a favor, and then some. He returned it.”

        “By sending you here. Most wouldn’t find that much of a boon.”

        Yuuri and Viktor shared a quick glance, and Otabek tipped his head, trying to hear their wordless exchange.

        “More so than you might think,” Yuuri said after a moment. “Russia… may not be safe, soon enough, and Nikolai fears that much of the world may follow. He couldn’t accompany Yuri, and he didn’t want Yuri to go alone. We were offered refuge, of a sort.”

        The words chilled Otabek to the bone. He’d seen the cities, the massive ships at their ports and the factories that belched black smoke and swallowed hollow-eyed masses of people into their sooty depths. If that was safety, he shouldn’t like to know what may be coming.

        Yuuri glanced from Otabek to Viktor, reflections of each other where they sat slumped over the table, caught in the endless cycle of their thoughts. “Vitya, we didn’t come to keep Yuri safe,” he said gently. “And the man – he knew enough to make his own choices.”

        “I know.”

        Otabek snorted. He could guess what their task had been. Why else would Viktor have been given Yuri’s name?

        Yuuri caught his eye and smiled ruefully. “Well, yes, but you _were_ the first slip-up. We’d let our guard down.”

        Dawn was beginning to break across the horizon, its dim light filtering through the kitchen’s high, narrow windows. Viktor rose from his chair with a sigh, rubbing at the dark circles that stood out against his pale face.

        “It’s the skerries today,” he said. “Otabek, I’d have you rest, but if you could convince them I don’t mean to poison their children in their beds...”

:: :: ::

        It wasn’t patience any more than a cat stalking a songbird was patience – if, that is, the bird knew that it was being watched.

        The man’s face became thin and sallow, his hands shaking as he tied knots into Yuri’s mane, intricate strings of threes and sevens and painted his legs with seawater. They galloped by the cliffs, turning away each time the salty breeze turned towards them and Yuri began to scent the air, suddenly chafing against the weight of the saddle on his back.

        Some of the stories said that, if touched, one’s hand would be fastened to a kelpie’s skin as if soldered in place. That had never been true, but it was fact all the same; so many humans would allow themselves to be dragged to the depths of the sea before loosing their hold, never learning that gold was not so easy to breath as air. They’d trap summer in glass bottles and expect its heat to hold through midwinter’s frost, all the while leaving the harvest to rot in its fields.

        Yuri kicked him, once, to watch the man’s eyes widen as he was thrown into the stable’s stone wall.

        After that, his hooves were weighted with bells of ash and silver.

        He thought, then, that Otabek was perhaps not so human as he himself was – Yuri knew what it was to tighten his grip even as it cut into his palm. He wished, sometimes, that Otabek had asked him to leave.

:: :: ::

        The lure of the sea grew stronger, tugging at Otabek relentlessly as summer’s warmth grew. It might have been easier if there was another nearby who understood its call, to bid that Otabek return to the shore. Alone, he lost himself in the currents. It might be days before he remembered to come back; it might be months.

        Three things held him from the water, even as he carried his sealskin at his back every moment, recoiling from the memory of the bridle settling over Yuri’s head.

        The first was Viktor, whose blithe smile was borne of the confidence that any small misstep might be forgiven by the company he kept. The threat of an angry _each-uisge_ had been enough to stay the hand of those who may have otherwise objected to a careless word or a foot out of invisible bounds, but that recourse was lost to him for now. It was up to Otabek to pull him from the edge of a ring of mushrooms sprung up overnight at the edge of a hazel grove, or to quiet him with a glance when he became too free with talk of the neighbors under the hill. Viktor, who never whistled indoors and would hush any who did so, who cleaned the grate lest the _domovoi_ become displeased and abandon them, had no sense for the island customs. It reminded Otabek of his mother, who had grown tired of reminding him of safety and care and instead told him that he must not swim too deep, or he’d stumble through into the Otherworld and never return.

        The second was Leo and the music they played together, falling from tunes Otabek had carried back from his travels to the lilting island melodies, so familiar they didn’t need to see their fingers upon the strings as the evening darkened around them.

        The third was his promise to Yuri. It held him as tightly as any oath sworn in blood might have, keeping him to the land even when gravity hung heavy on his bones.

        He’d not been asked to stay before. Sometimes, it had been kindness: Leo’s eyes were sad the first time Otabek left the island, but Otabek could not have remained on its banks any more than he could have reversed the tides and had them return his father, hale and healthy. His mother had sighed when he clutched his sealskin and shrank away from the flames, but relief had flickered upon her face like firelight. She didn’t ask him to stay by her side, and he couldn’t say whether it was for his sake or hers.

        His father could have held his mother’s sealskin, hidden it away. No matter how much she might have loved him, she would have searched for it day and night until she could escape to the sea without another glance. Perhaps she couldn’t have done anything other than fight against what held her, whether it chained her to the land or called her to the water.

        If he’d asked her not to leave, it might have been a cleaner cut when she did.

        So Otabek stayed, and he waited. He waited for autumn’s harvest and the tearing cough that swept the island every year as the nights drew in, and he waited for Yuri to appear before him, all bright eyes and snarling smile. Most of all, he waited for the waiting to be finished – not that anything come to pass, but that he might stop watching the horizon to mark the precise moment when it did.

        He couldn’t say whether he expected an eerie, keening howl to cover the harbor like a fog, stilling his hands on the oars and the seeming to freeze the rippling of the waves. All Otabek knew was that he felt as he had lying half-conscious upon the shore, unable to move as Yuri’s cry bore into his mind and tore at his soul.

        The boat was slow against the currents, and his arms burned with strain. It was only a moment’s thought to pull the sealskin from his bag, a blink before it settled around his knees, his hips, his shoulders.

        The sea was sweet on Otabek’s skin as he swam.


	7. An Siathamh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [KinoGlowWorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinoglowworm/works) has made a [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l2RuQIdgvNE&list=PLPmr9grZCqqbN5R3FbTuTRWurbgKlg1GT) for this story, and really great [song notes](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1q5JaEsRGgG_qzndwrq8_j2yQI6as0r4dlpHqSBQsK0o/edit?usp=sharing) to go along with it! Seriously, I learned stuff about this story while listening/reading, so Good Shit.

        For a while, Yuri thought that the man would soon forfeit, so full of fear had his eyes become. Instead, he murmured ever more of the races they could win on the mainland, running against mounts far swifter than the sturdy island ponies and before crowds with pockets deeper than the fishermen’s sorry coin.

        Yuri had seen it before. The man had taken hold of far more than he could bear, but only reached for more. He feared loss – not simply of what he had, but of the dreams dancing in his mind. Soon, he would grow sloppy and careless. He’d not make it past Samhain, when his trinkets and charms would weaken against the brutal autumn storms.

        It was what it was, and what it had always been.

        It had never been a hushed, pre-dawn conversation with an unfamiliar voice, hidden out of the stable and Yuri’s sight. It had never been the sharp strike of metal upon metal, the clanging of which echoed in his ears. It had never been watching with dull eyes as he was brought out, so weighed down with knots and spells that he could barely lift his hooves.

        “You said a horse,” the farrier said, looking askance. “I’ll have naught to do with any other than that.”

        “One that might be known across the mainland, and farther besides,” the man replied. His hands shook on the reins. “Is it your eyes that are failing, or superstition that blinds you to all but your ponies and the farmers’ old nags?”

        A pause. Yuri tried to jerk his head away, but the silver bit cut into his mouth and held him fast.

        The farrier stepped back, examining the charms that gleamed in Yuri’s mane. His face was weathered, reddened with the bloom of winter’s claws. He frowned.

        “Oh, yes.” The man laughed, hollow and forced. “The children won’t let him alone – you see how patient he is. Come, now. A horse is but a horse no matter how swift he is. Would you have me run him without shoes?”

        There were no children. Yuri quivered as his foot was lifted from the earth.

        When the iron touched his hoof, the world exploded into fire.

:: :: ::

        The seawater in Otabek’s hair had only just begun to dry as he climbed the last hill that separated him from the accursed stables. Someone gasped as he yanked open the gate to the ramshackle courtyard and Otabek turned.

        If he’d hoped to see Yuri, angered but safe, the thought was quickly dashed. It wasn’t him, nor was it the fool who’d thought to harness the ocean for his own. He recognized the town blacksmith, slumped against the stone and clutching an arm that ran dark and wet.

        “What did you do?” growled Otabek, yanking the man to his feet by the collar of his blood-spattered shirt. Though he was shorter by more than a head, the blacksmith cowered in front of him. “Tell me. What did you do?”

        “I was bid shoe a horse,” came the whimpered reply. “I hadn’t known- I was told it was but ornaments-”

        Otabek let him fall to the ground. He felt numb as he looked to the gate, ever more fearful of what may lie within – and if Yuri would still be there at all, or if he’d already been taken from the island. He wondered if Yuri might send him away once more, if the rules he’d set for himself were so strict as to be unbreakable, or if Yuri might not be able to ask him anything at all. This was more than the touch of iron.

        He shivered in the dawn chill, though it was more from anticipation than the cold, and Otabek suddenly felt the wetness in his hair and crust of salt drying against his skin. His sealskin was under one arm, near forgotten. The bite of frost on his feet and ankles had started to sting, and soon the ache would set in.

        Of course, his clothes were yet in the boat, or more likely tossed into the waves by the lifting wind. There was distant pang of loss as Otabek remembered the coin still in his pocket, now returned to the sea as he’d told Yuri to do months before. He closed his eyes for a moment. It was time to think, time to act, and not to feel.

        “Give me your trousers,” he snapped at the blacksmith. “I’ll not freeze for you. Then bind your arm and go.”

        If there was any thought of protest, it was quickly stifled. Folds of fabric swam around Otabek’s feet, the excess length at least serving to return a bit of warmth. It would be hard to run, but more difficult still if his limbs were numbed with ice.

        The cold iron gate was slick with rain, which had begun to spatter from the dark clouds that obscured dawn’s first hint of wakefulness. An iron gate to hold Yuri, and iron horseshoes to bind him. Otabek had never heard stories of anyone who dared to shoe an _each-uisge,_ but he could guess that the intent was to forge a stronger hold than the year granted by a silver bridle.

        Rain hissed against the grass, drowning out the farrier’s ragged breaths and whimpers, and the gate’s hinges creaked under Otabek’s touch.

        The stable yard was cast into deep, stretching shadows by a pair of lanterns in the far corner. The flames were no more than whispers of light in the rain, a pair will-o’-the-wisps beckoning him. Otabek stepped towards them, peering into the impenetrable gloom.

        His eye caught on a figure sprawled across the ground, and Otabek felt the icy water of the harbor closing over his head once more. He might have prayed, had he remembered how, or to whom; he thought of the Cailleach’s expression so many years before when he’d shouted at her to give back what was his. The body before him refused to shift to a tumble of stone or mound of earth, and the wet gleam of shadow against the bare dirt reflected the lanterns’ pale light. It had only been raining for a short while, and all the droplets sank into the soil.

        The man’s hair curled. Otabek inhaled for the first time in what felt like hours, breathing in relief with the thick, coppery stench of blood. He looked away from the mangled, empty face. It was impossible to muster any pity.

        A flicker of movement.

        Otabek didn’t dare to so much as blink as Yuri melted from the shadows, his dapple-grey coat nearly invisible in the darkness. He moved with a brutal, liquid grace that left no question as to what might have happened to the farrier’s arm and the dead man’s bloodied head.

        He couldn’t tell if Yuri knew him or not, if the hold of the farrier’s iron was too strong, trapping his mind as well as his body. Otabek’s muscles burned with the tension of holding still as Yuri approached, only letting himself speak soft words that didn’t reach his own ears. It might have been no more than Yuri’s name, repeated over and over like a lullaby.

 _Yuri Plisetsky._ That, Otabek knew he didn’t give voice to. He’d heard the name from Viktor’s lips and not Yuri’s own, but it would still have some power. It was another chain, another rope. Otabek wouldn’t command him.

        Yuri stopped, snorted – not scenting his prey but curious, searching – and Otabek forced his foot forward, leaving his hands loose at his sides. His sealskin was draped around his neck. He was close enough to reach out and touch Yuri.

        Otabek stumbled as Yuri shoved his shoulder, nosing the soft fur of the sealskin. .

        His fingers found the knots in Yuri’s mane. He untangled them blindly, afraid to look away and fail to notice a kick he’d have no chance at dodging. They were in tangles of sevens and threes, laced with ribbons and charms and tiny silver chimes, and Otabek was all too aware that they’d been put in place by the man lying dead on the other side of the yard.

        Finally, the silver bridle slipped free.

:: :: ::

        Yuri stumbled as he shifted; two legs weren’t enough to stay steady, not when one of them was heavy and numb from the brief touch of iron. Otabek moved to catch him. The accursed bridle was still in his hands.

        “Don’t touch me,” Yuri snarled, lurching back. He glanced at the gate. It hung open, wide enough for him to slip through without touching, The ocean was near, and he quivered as it called to him from behind the stone walls. He smelled saltwater.

        Otabek tossed the bridle to the ground and wiped his hands as if trying to scrub its residue from his skin. He didn’t belong in the stableyard, with its blood-soaked earth and stone walls.

        Or perhaps he did, Yuri thought, turning away. Otabek was another chain tying him down, binding Yuri to the island he’d never asked to be part of. The whole thing was a trap painted with the promise of freedom, and worst of all, it was one he didn’t want to leave. Perhaps the _daoine síth_ weren’t so wrong to hide in their hills and leave the land to humans who took and took until nothing was left.

        They didn’t have the ocean, not yet. Yuri darted through the gate, hearing Otabek hesitate before his footsteps followed him out of the stableyard. He didn’t stop until he reached the shore and stood ankle-deep in the surf. Otabek joined him.

        “You’re leaving.”

        “You haven’t asked me to stay,” Yuri said. “Nor if I’ll return.”

 _You could have kept me here,_ he added silently. A shining silver bridle and shining silver words – it was harder to say which would have held him more tightly.

        “You haven’t asked me to wait for you,” Otabek replied, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

        “I won’t live in their world.” Yuri kicked at the water, sending a spray of droplets to meet the falling rain. “I thought I could find a place here. I did. I don’t want it.”

        “He couldn’t control you.”

        “No, he couldn’t, and I killed him for trying,” replied Yuri, curling his lip. “What about next time? The blacksmith will talk. They’ll try again. You don’t know what it means to be caught.”

        “Yura.” For a moment, Yuri thought Otabek was about to laugh, but the glint of amusement in his eyes was dark and hollow. “Yura, that much I know.”

        Yuri scowled, raising an eyebrow. What would Otabek know of silver bridles and iron shoes?

        Otabek sighed. “Yura, really?”

        “What?”

        The fur over Otabek’s shoulders was thrust into Yuri’s hands. It was a pelt, damp with saltwater, its fur sleek and warm against his fingers.

        “And you were so upset when you thought I was going to hurt the seals,” grumbled Yuri. His thoughts felt slow and heavy, sluggish in his mind. “So?”

        “Do you know why it’s forbidden to hunt seals?”

        “Selkies,” Yuri replied absently, stroking the silky fur. “Of course I know that.”

        Otabek watched him, waiting.

        Yuri scowled. “What does this have to do with anything?”

        “Yura.”

        Otabek’s eyes were black in the gloomy dawn, his hair sleek with rain. Yuri had thought he was a seal when he first walked from the ocean, his dark head popping up from the waves.

        “You’re a fucking _selkie._ ”

        “I am,” agreed Otabek. Yuri would miss his slow smile, so subtle it was nothing more than a twitch of his lips. “Maybe you should pay more attention.”

        The water had grown colder. Yuri shivered. “Your mother. You told me your father gave her flowers, not-”

        Not hidden her sealskin, tearing her away from the water as surely as locks and chains would have done. Not-

        “He didn’t.” The waves soaked their legs, whipped into caps of foamy white by the wind. A storm was coming. He could feel lightning in the air, see the thunder rolling across Otabek’s face. It would be quiet beneath the water, once he was deep enough to forget about the fishermen’s hooks. “He never tried to keep her. She would have never come back if he did.”

        “That’s why you haven’t asked me to stay.”

        “You’ve spent enough time trapped.”

        The stormy sky was an inky, swirling shadow. No one would try to follow him.

        “Beka, you could come with me.”

:: :: ::

        For a moment, Otabek was a child, struggling to answer his mother as the acrid scent of burning fur scratched his throat. _Yes._ Lose the sea, lose the island. _No._ Even then, he must have known that she’d never come back. In the end, he’d only been able to run, leaving the choice to her. She hadn’t waited for him.

        His soul had fractured that day, falling into splinters he’d needed decades to piece together again.

        Yuri was the only spot of stillness on the shore, surrounded by the wind and rain and waves. It felt as though he’d stand halfway into the water forever, never moving, not unless Otabek answered. A story wasn’t over until its last lines were spoken, and a song didn’t finish until the last note had faded into silence.

        The border between land and sea was both, and it was neither.

        Otabek closed his eyes. “I’ll always come back to the island. I’ve tried to leave it before. I couldn’t.”

        “It’s changing too. What is there to stay for?” Yuri stood in the waves like a story, like a promise.

        “What it will be doesn’t change what it was.”

        He’d learned to walk on its cliffs, to swim by its shores. If the ocean was in his blood, his bones had been formed from the island. And yet… it would remain, and it would vanish. His presence wouldn’t hold back the world’s encroachment, and his father would have drowned whether they’d been at home or on the other side of the sea. It was only a question of whether Otabek would be there to watch the changes.

        It was easier to leave than to lose.

        “I’ll go with you,” Otabek said. “I’ll go. But not yet.”

        “Then when?”

        “I have to tell Leo.” He’d left without a goodbye, before, and now Leo’s hair was streaked with silver. “Viktor and Yuuri, too. They’ll be searching for you.”

        Yuri’s eyes widened, and Otabek thought that for all his talk of change, he might have never learned how quickly humans grew old.

:: :: ::

        Once upon a time, there was an island.

        Once upon a time, there was an ocean.

        They were the same as they’d always been, through countless winters and sunsets, and they were different each time the sun rose and the tides fell.

        Once upon a time, the sea was bound to the land with a silver bridle and iron shoes.

        Once upon a time, the land was bound to the sea with blood and bone.

        A blacksmith told them about how a man with proud eyes told him to shoe an _each-uisge,_ and about how the pride had turned to fear just before it had become nothing at all. One could carry seawater in buckets, but it would remember, and it would return.

        Once upon a time, a new story was born.

 _Be careful,_ it said. _The ocean is deep and you are small. Be careful,_ it said. _All is not yours._

        “You do have a place here,” murmured Otabek. “If you want it. You’re part of the island.”

        Yuri smiled as the words settled in his bones. “I do.”

        There were no prophecies or lost kings, no secrets buried beneath the earth. There were only choices, and in these choices, there were stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay wow shit we're done. 
> 
> A couple of brief notes:  
> 1\. I hope to rewrite this as an original story sometime! So, if you're interested in that, or if you want a chance to reread or download this fic before it's deleted when that time comes, stay subscribed and I will post a new chapter with Bonus Content to give a couple weeks of warning.  
> 2\. I have a new fic in progress that I will not be posting on AO3! However, if you want to read it, you can let me know through tumblr or discord and I'll be happy to share it.  
> 3\. I really love selkies.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [tumblr!](leopardprinttrashchild.tumblr.com)  
> I've also just made a discord server, so if anyone wants to talk about Otayuri in general or talk about this fic/my other fics, check it out [here](https://discord.gg/MP3Ns). 
> 
> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * readers talking to each other!
> 

> 
> I reply to all comments! It may take me a few days, but I'll get there. 
> 
> Note: If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I'm reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with whisper and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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